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CH£BliOTTE  T^JMTliE, 


A  TALE  OF  TRUTH. 


BY  MRS.  1WWS0JST, 

1  ATE  OP  THE  SEW  THEATUE,  PHILADELPHIA  ; 

AUTHOR  OF  VICTORIA,   INQUISITOR,    FILLE  DE 
CHAMBRE^  etC, 


She  was  her  parents'  only  joy ; 
They  had  but  one — one  darling  child. 

Romeo  and  Juliet.. 

Her  form  was  faultless,  and  her  mind, 

Untainted  yet  by  art, 
Was  noble,  just,  humane  and  kind, 

And  virtue  warm'd  her  heart. 
But  ah !  the  cruel  spoiler  came. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

PUBLISHED  BY  BENJAMIN  WARNER, 

NO.  147,  MARKET-STREET— AND    SOLD  ALSO  AT  HIS 

STORE  IN  RICHMOND,   VIRGINIA. 

1818.  | 

WIILUM  GREEB— rBINTtH, 


I 


/  * 


CILOULOTTE  TEMRId&T 


CHAP.  L 

A  Boarding  School. 

<  ARE  you  for  a  walk/  said  Montraville  to 
his  companion,  as  they  arose  from  table;  'are 
you  for  a  walk  ?  or  shall  we  order  the  chaise  an4 
proceed  to  Portsmouth  V  Belcour  preferred  the 
former ;  and  they  sauntered  out  to  view  the  town^ 
and  to  make  remarks  on  the  inhabitants,  as  they 
returned  from  the  church. 

Montraville  was  a  lieutenant  in  the  army '  Bel- 
cour was  his  brother  officer :  they  had  been  tq 
take  leave  of  their  friends,  previous  to  their  de- 
parture for  America,  and  were  now  returning  tQ 
Portsmouth,  where  the  troops  waited  orders  for 
embarkation.  They  had  stopped  at  Chichester  to 
dine ;  and  knowing  they  had  sufficient  time  to 
reach  the  place  of  destination  before  dark,  an4 
yet  allow  them  a  walk,  had  resolved^  it  being 
Sunday  afternoon,  to  take  a  survey  of  the  Chi- 
^  Chester  ladies  as  they  returned  from  their  deyp- 
-»  tions. 

<k       They  had  gratified  their  curiosity,  and  were 
%  preparing  to  return  to  the  inn  without  honouring 
°i  any  of  the  belies  with  particular  notice,  when  Ma- 
dame Du  Pont,   at  the  head  of  her  school,  de- 
scended from  the  church.     Such  an  assemblage 


4 

of  youth  and  innocence  naturally  attracted  the 
young  soldiers ;  they  stopped ;  and,  as  the  little 
cavalcade  passed,  almost  involuntarily  pulled  off 
their  hats.  A  tall,  elegant  girl  looked  at  Mon- 
traville,  and  blushed ;  he  instantly  recollected 
the  features  of  Charlotte  Temple,  whom  he  had 
once  seen  and  danced  with  at  a  ball  at  Ports- 
mouth. At  that  time  he  thought  on  her  only  as 
a  very  lovely  child,  she  being  then  only  thirteen ; 
but  the  improvement  two  years  had  made  in  her 
person,  and  the  blush  of  recollection  which  suf- 
fused her  cheeks,  as  she  passed,  awakened  in 
his  bosom  new  and  pleasing  ideas.  Vanity  led 
him  to  think,  that  pleasure,  at  again  beholding 
him,  might  have  occasioned  the  emotion  he  had 
witnessed,  and  the  same  vanity  led  him  to  wish, 
to  see  her  again. 

'She  is  the  sweetest  girl  in  the  world,'  said  he, 
as  he  entered  the  inn.  Belcour  stared.  'Did 
you  not  notice  her !'  continued  Montraville :  *  she 
had  on  a  blue  bonnet,  and  with  a  pair  of  lovely 
eyes  of  the  same  colour,  has  contrived  to  make 
me  feel  devilish  odd  about  the  heart. 

'  Pho,'  said  Belcour,  *  a  musket  ball  from  our 
friends,  the  Americans,  may,  in  less  than  two 
months,  make  you  feel  worse.' 

4 1  never  thinfc  of  the  future,'  replied  Montra- 
ville ;  '  but  am  determined  to  make  the  most  of 
the  present,  and  would  willingly  compound  with 
any  kind  familiar  who  would  inform  me  who  the 
girl  is,  and  how  I  might  be  likely  to  obtain  an 
interview.' 

But  no  kind  familiar  at  that  time  appearing, 
and  the  chaise  which  they  had  ordered  driving 


9 

up  to  the  door,  Montraville  and  his  companion 
were  obliged  to  take  leave  of  Chichester,  and  its. 
fair  inhabitant,  and  proceed  on  their  journey. 

But  Charlotte  had  made  too  great  an  impress 
sion  on  his  mind  to  be  easily  eradicated  :  having, 
therefore,  spent  three  whole  days  in  thinking  on 
her,  and  in  endeavouring  to  form  some  plan  for 
seeing  her,  he  determined  to  set  off  for  Chiches- 
ter, and  trust  to  chance  either  to  favour  or  frus- 
trate his  designs.  Arriving  at  the  verge  of  the 
town,  he  dismounted,  and  sending  the  servant 
forward  with  the  horses,  proceeded  toward  the 
place  where,  in  the  midst  of  an  extensive  plea- 
sure ground,  stood  the  mansion  which  contained 
the  lovely  Charlotte  Temple.  Montraville  lean- 
ed on  a  broken  gate,  and  looked  earnestly  at  the 
house.  The  wall  which  surrounded  it  was  high, 
and  perhaps  the  Arguses  who  guarded  the  Hes- 
perian fruit  within,  were  more  watchful  than 
those  famed  of  old. 

4,Tis  a  romantic  attempt,'  said  he ; c  and  should 
I  even  succeed  in  seeing  and  conversing  with  her, 
it  can  be  productive  of  no  good  :  I  must  of  ne- 
cessity leave  England  in  a  few  days,  and  proba~ 
bly  may  never  return.  Why  then  should  I  en- 
deavour to  engage  the  affections  of  this  lovely- 
girl,  only  to  leave  her  a  prey  to  a  thousand  in- 
quietudes, of  which  at  present  she  has  no  idea  9 
I  will  return  to  Portsmouth,  and  think  no  more 
about  her.' 

The  evening  row  was  closed ;  a  serene  still- 
ness reigned ;    and  the  chaste  Queen  of  Night, 
with  her  silver  crescent,  faintly  illuminated  thr> 
hemisphere.  The  mind  of  Montraville  was  aitsta 
A- 3 


ed  into  composure  by  the  serenity  of  the  surround- 
ing objects.  '  I  will  think  on  her  no  more,'  said 
he,  and  turned  with  an  intention  to  leave  the 
place ;  but  as  he  turned,  he  saw  the  gate  which 
led  to  the  pleasure  grounds  open,  and  two  wo- 
men come  out,  who  walked  arm  in  arm  across 
the  field. 

1  I  will  at  least  see  who  these  are,'  said  he. — 
He  overtook  them,  and  giving  them  the  compli- 
ments of  the  evening,  begged  leave  to  see  them 
into  the  more  frequented  parts  of  the  town  :  but 
how  was  he  delighted,  when,  waiting  for  an  an- 
swer, he  discovered,  under  the  concealment  of  a 
large  bonnet,  the  face  of  Charlotte  Temple. 

He  soon  found  means  to  ingratiate  himself 
with  her  companion,  who  was  a  French  teacher 
at  the  school ;  and,  at  parting,  slipped  a  letter 
he  had  purposely  written,  into  Charlotte's  hand, 
and  five  guineas  into  that  of  Mademoiselle,  who 
promised  she  would  endeavour  to  bring  her 
young  charge  into  the  field  again,  the  next  even- 
ing. 


CHAP.  II. 

Domestic  concerns. 

Mr.  TEMPLE  was  the  youngest  son  of  a 
nobleman,  whose  fortune  was  by  no  means  ade- 
quate to  the  antiquity,  grandeur,  and,  I  may  add, 
pride  of  the  family.  He  saw  his  eider,  brother 
made  completely  wretched,  by  marrying  a  disa- 
greeable woman,  whose  fortune  helped  to  prop 


7 

the  sinking  dignity  of  the  house  ;  and  he  beheld 
his  sisters  legally  prostituted  to  old,  decrepid 
men,  whose  titles  gave  them  consequence  in  the 
eyes  of  the  world,  and  whose  affluence  render- 
ed them  splendidly  miserable.  '  I  will  not  sacri- 
fice internal  happiness  for  outward  show,'  said 
he :  4 1  will  seek  content ;  and  if  I  find  her  in  a 
cottage,  will  embrace  her  with  as  much  cordiali- 
ty as  I  should  if  seated  on  a  throne.' 

Mr.  Temple  possessed  a  small  estate  of  about 
five  hundred  pounds  a  year ;  and  with  that  he 
resolved  to  preserve  independence,  to  marry 
where  the  feelings  of  his  heart  should  direct  him, 
and  to  confine  his  expenses  within  the  limits  of 
his  income.  He  had  a  heart  open  to  every  gen- 
erous feeling  of  humanity,  and  a  hand  ready  to 
dispense  to  those  who  wanted  part  of  the  bless- 
ings he  enjoyed  himself. 

As  he  was  universally  known  to  be  the  friend 
of  the  unfortunate,  his  advice  and  bounty  was 
frequently  solicited ;  nor  was  it  seldom  that  he 
sought  out  indigent  merit,  and  raised  it  from  ob- 
scurity, confining  his  own  expenses  within  a  very 
narrow  compass. 

*  You  are  a  benevolent  fellow,'  said  a  young 
officer  to  him  one  day  ;  4  and  I  have  a  great 
mind  to  give  you  a  fine  subject  to  exercise  the 
goodness  of  your  heart  upon.' 

*  You  cannot  oblige  me  more,'  said  Temple, 
4  than  to  point  any  way  by  which  I  can  be  ser- 
viceable to  my  fellow  creatures.' 

4  Come  along  then,'  said  the  young  man,  4  we 
will  go  and  visit  a  man  who  is  not  in  so  good  a 
lodging  as  he  deserves  ,*  and,  were  it  not  that  he 


has  an  angel  with  him,  who  comforts  and  supr 
ports  him,  he  must  long  since  have  sunk  under 
his  misfortunes.'  The  young  man's  heart  was 
too  full  to  proceed ;  and  Temple,  unwilling  to 
irritate  his  feelings  by  making  further  inquiries, 
followed  him  in  silence,  till  they  arrived  at  the 
.  Fleet  prison. 

The  officer  inquired  for  Captain  Eldridge :  a 
person  led  them  up  several  pair  of  dirty  stairs, 
and  pointing  to  a  door  which  led  to  a  miserable, 
small  appartment,  said  that  was  the  Captain's 
room,  and  retired. 

The  officer,  whose  name  was  Blakeney,  tapped 
at  the  door,  and  was  bid  to  enter  by  a  voice  mer 
lodiously  soft.  He  opened  the  door  and  discovr 
ered  to  Temple  a  scene  which  rivetted  him  to 
the  spot  with  astonishment, 

The  appartment,  though  small,  and  bearing 
strong  marks  of  poverty,  was  neat  in  the  extreme. 
In  an  arm-chair,  his  head  reclined  upon  his  hand, 
his  eyes  fixed  on  a  book  which  lay  open  before 
him,  sat  an  aged  man  in  a  Lieutenant's  uniform, 
which,  though  threadbare,  would  sooner  call  a 
blush  of  shame  into  the  face  of  those  who  could 
neglect  real  merit,  than  cause  the  hectic  of  confu- 
sion to  glow  on  the  cheeks  of  him  who  wore  it. 

Beside  him  sat  a  lovely  creature,  busied  in 
painting  a  fan  mount.  She  was  fair  as  the  lily, 
but  sorrow  had  nipped  the  rose  in  her  cheek  be- 
fore it  was  half  blown.  Her  eyes  were  blue ; 
and  her  hair,  which  was  light  brown,  was  slight- 
ly confined  under  a  plain  muslin  cap,  tied  round 
with  a  black  ribbon ;  a  white  linen  gown  and 
plain  lawn  handkerchief,  composed  the  remain- 


9 

der  of  her  dress  ;  and  in  this  simple  attire,  she 
was  more  irresistibly  charming  to  such  a  heart 
as  Temple's,  than  she  would  have  been,  if  adorn- 
ed with  all  the  splendour  of  a  courtly  belle. 

When  they  entered,  the  old  man  arose  from 
his  seat,  and  shaking  Blakeney  by  the  hand  with 
great  cordiality,  offered  Temple  his  chair ;  and 
there  being  but  three  in  the  room,  seated  himself 
on  the  side  of  his  little  bed,  with  evident  com- 
posure. 

*  This  is  a  strange  place,'  said  he  to  Temple, 
*  to  receive  visitors  of  distinction  in ;  but  we 
must  fit  our  feelings  to  our  station.  While  I  am 
not  ashamed  to  own  the  cause  that  brought  me 
here,  why  should  I  blush  at  my  situation  ?  Our 
misfortunes  are  not  our  faults ;  and  were  it  not 
for  that  poor  girl ' 

Here  the  philosopher  was  lost  in  the  father. 
He  rose  hastily  from  his  seat,  and  walking  to- 
ward the  window,  wiped  off  a  tear  which  he  was 
afraid  would  tarnish  the  cheek  of  a  sailor. 

Temple  cast  his  eye  on  Miss  Eldridge  ;  a  pel- 
lucid drop  had  stolen  from  her  eyes,  and  falien 
upon  a  rose  she  was  painting.  It  blotted  and 
discoloured  the  flower.  '  'Tis  emblematic,'  said 
he,  mentally :  '  the  rose  of  youth  and  health  soon 
fades  when  wattered  by  the  tear  of  affliction.' 

'My  friend  Blakeney,'  said  he,  addressing  the 
old  man,  '  told  me  I  could  be  of  service  to  you ; 
be  so  kind  then,  dear  sir,  as  to  point  out  some 
way  in  which  I  can  relieve  the  anxiety  of  your 
heart,  and  increase  the  pleasure  of  mv  own.' 

'My  good  young  man,'  said  Eidrid^e,  'you 
kjiow  not  what  you  offer.     While  deprived  of 


10 

my  liberty,  I  cannot  be  free  from  anxiety  on  my 
own  account ;  but  that  is  a  trifling  concern ;  my 
anxious  thoughts  extend  to  one  more  dear  a  thou- 
sand times  than  life  j  lama  poor  weak  old  man, 
and  must  expect  in  a  few  years  to  sink  into  si- 
lence and  oblivion ;  but  when  I  am  gone,  who 
will  protect  that  fair  bud  of  innocence  from  the 
blasts  of  adversity,  or  from  the  cruel  hand  of  in- 
sult and  dishonour  V 

'  Oh,  my  father !'  cried  Miss  Eldridge,  ten- 
derly taking  his  hand  |  •  be  not  anxious  on  that 
account ;  for  daily  are  my  prayers  offered  to  hea- 
ven that  our  lives  may  terminate  at  the  same  in- 
stant, and  'one  grave  receive  us  both  :  for  why 
should  I  live  when  deprived  of  my  only  friend  I* 

Temple  was  moved  even  to  tears.  '  You  will 
both  live  many  years,'  said  he, '  and  I  hope,  to  see 
much  happiness.  Cheerly,  my  friend,  cheerly ; 
these  passing  clouds  of  adversity  will  serve  only 
to  make  the  sunshine  of  prosperity  more  pleas- 
ing. But  we  are  losing  time ;  you  might  ere 
this  have  told  me  who  were  yqirr  creditors,  what 
were  their  demands,  and  otfyer  particulars  neces- 
sary to  your  liberation.* 

4  My  story  is  short,'  said  Mr.  Eldridge  ;  *  but 
there  are  some  particulars  which  will  wring  my 
heart  barely  to.  remember ;  yet  to  one  whose  of- 
fers of  friendship  appear  so  open  and  disinter- 
ested, I  will  relate  every  circumstance  that  led 
to  my  present  painful  situation.  But  my  child,' 
continued  he,  addressing  his  daughter,  *  let  me 
prevail  on  you  to  take  this  opportunity,  while  my 
friends  are  with  me,  to  enjoy  the  benefit  of  air 
and  exercise.     Go,  my  love;;   leave  me  now; 


ii 

to-morrow,  at  your  usual  hour,  I  will  expect 


you 


Miss  Eldridge  impressed  on  his  cheek  the  kiss 
of  fiilial  affection,  and  obeyed^ 


CHAJP.  III. 

Unexpected  misfortunes. 

«  MY  life,'  said  Mr.  Eldridge ; « till  within 
these  few  years,  was  marked  by  no  particular 
circumstances  deserving  notice.  I  early  embrac- 
ed the  life  of  a  sailor,  and  have  served  my  king 
with  unremitting  ardour  for  many  years.  At 
the  age  of  twenty-five  I  married  an  amiable  wo- 
man j  one  sOn  and  the  girl  who  just  now  left  us, 
were  the  fruits  of  our  union.  My  boy  had  ge- 
nius and  spirit.  I  straitened  my  little  income 
to  give  him  a  liberal  education,  but  the  rapid 
progress  he  made  in  his  studies  amply  compen- 
sated for  the  inconvenience.  At  the  academy 
where  he  received  his  education,  he  commenced 
an  acquaintance  with  a  Mr.  Lewis,  a  young  man 
of  affluent  fortune.  As  they  grew  up,  their  in- 
timacy ripened  into  friendship,  and  they  became 
almost  inseparable  companions. 

*  George  chose  the  profession  of  a  soldier.  I 
had  neither  friends  ttor  money  to  procure  him  a 
commission,  and  had  Wished  him  to  embrace  a 
nautical  life  ;  but  this  was  repu'gnant  to  his  wish- 
es, and  I  ceased  to  urge  him  on  the  subject. 

*  The  friendship  subsisting  between  Lewis  and 
my  soli  was  of  such  a  nature  as  gave  him  free 


12 

arecess  to  oar  family ;  and  so  specious  was  his 
manner,  that  we  hesitated  not  to  state  to  him  all 
our  little  difficulties  in  regard  to  George's  future 
views.  He  listened  to  us  with  attention,  and  of- 
fered to  advance  any  sum  necessary  for  his  first 
setting  out. 

4 1  embraced  this  offer,  and  gave  him  my  note 
for  the  payment  of  it,  but  he  would  not  suffer 
me  to  mention  any  stipulated  time,  as  he  said  I 
might  do  it  whenever  most  convenient  to  myself. 
About  this  time  my  dear  Lucy  returned  from 
school,  and  I  soon  began  to  imagine  Lewis  look- 
ed at  her  with  eyes  of  affection.  I  gave  my  child 
a  caution,  to  beware  of  him,  and  to  look  on  her 
mother  as  her  friend.  She  was  unaffectedly  art- 
less ;  and  when,  as  I  suspected,  Lewis  made 
professions  of  love,  she  confided  in  her  parents, 
and  assured  us  her  heart  was  perfectly  unbiassed 
in  his  favour,  and  she  would  cheerfully  submit 
to  our  direction. 

4 1  took  an  early  opportunity  of  questioning 
him  concerning  his  intentions  towards  my  child  : 
he  gave  an  equivocal  answer,  and  I  forbade  him 
the  house. 

1  The  next  day  he  sent  and  demanded  pay- 
ment of  his  money.  It  was  not  in  my  power  to 
comply  with  the  demand.  I  requested  three 
days  to  endeavour  to  raise  it,  determining  in  that 
time  to  mortgage  my  half  pay,  and  live  on  a 
small  annuity  which  my  wife  possessed,  rather 
than  be  under  an  obligation  to  so  worthless  a 
man  :  but  this  short  time  was  not  allowed  me  ; 
for  that  evening,  as  I  was  sitting  down  to  sup- 
per, unsuspicious  of  danger,  an  officer  entered, 
and  tore  me  from  the  embraces  of  my  family. 


13 

c  My  wife  had  been  for  some  time  in  a  declin- 
ing state  of  health  ;  ruin  at  once  so  unexpected 
and  inevitable,  was  a  stroke  she  was  not  prepar- 
ed to  bear,  and  I  saw  her  faint  into  the  arms  of 
our  servant,  as  I  left  my  own  habitation  for  the 
comfortless  walls  of  a  prison.  My  poor  Lucy, 
distracted  with  her  fears  for  us  both,  sunk  on  the 
floor  and  endeavoured  to  detain  me  by  her  feeble 
efforts ;  but  in  vain ;  they  forced  open  her  arms ;  she 
shrieked,  and  fell  prostrate.  But  pardon  me ;  the 
horrors  of  that  night  unman  me ;  I  cannot  proceed.' 

He  rose  from  his  seat,  and  walked  several 
times  across  the  room  ;  at  length,  attaining  more 
composure,  he  cried — '  What  a  mere  infant  lam  ! 
Why,  Sir,  I  never  felt  thus  in  the  day  of  battle.' 

*  No,'  said  Temple  ;  l  but  the  truly  brave  soul 
is  tremblingly  alive  to  the  feelings  of  humanity.' 

*  True,'  replied  the  old  man,  (something  like 
satisfaction  darting  across  his  features,)  'and 
painful  as  these  feelings  are,  I  would  not  ex- 
change them  for  that  torpor  which  the  stoic  mis- 
takes for  philosophy.  How  many  exquisite  de- 
lights should  I  have  passed  by  unnoticed,  but  for 
these  keen  sensations,  this  quick  sense  of  happi- 
ness or  misery  !  Then,  let  us,  my  friend,  take 
the  cup  of  life  as  it  is  presented  to  us,  tempered 
by  the  hand  of  a  wise  Providence ;  be  thankful 
for  the  good,  be  patient  unto  the  evil,  and  pre- 
sume not  to  inquire  why  the  latter  predominates*' 

'This  is  true  philosophy,'  said  Temple. 

c  'Tis  the  only  wray  to  reconcile  ourselves  to 
the  cross  events  of  life,'  replied  he.     *  But  I  for- 
get myself.  I  will  no  longer  intrude  on  your  pa- 
tience, but  proceed  in  my  melancholy  tale. 
B 


14 

1  The  very  evening  that  I  was  taken  to  prison, 
my  son  arrived  from  Ireland,  where  he  had  been 
some  time  with  his  regiment.  From  the  distract- 
ed expressions  of  his  mother  and  sister,  he  learnt 
by  whom  I  had  been  arrested ;  and,  late  as  it 
was,  flew  on  the  wings  of  wounded  affection,  to 
the  house  of  his  false  friend,  and  earnestly  in- 
quired the  cause  of  this  cruel  conduct.  With  all 
the  calmness  of  a  cool  deliberate  villain,  he  avow- 
ed his  passion  for  Lucy ;  declared  her  situation 
in  life  would  not  permit  him  to  marry  her ;  but 
offered  to  release  me  immediately,  and  make 
any  settlement  on  her,  if  George  would  persude 
her  to  live,  as  he  impiously  termed  it,  a  life  of 
honour. 

4  Fired  at  the  insult  offered  to  a  man  and  a 
soldier,  my  boy  struck  the  villain,  and  a  challenge 
ensued.  He  then  went  to  a  coffee-house  in  the 
neighbourhood  and  wrote  a  long  affectionate  let- 
ter to  me,  blaming  himself  severely  for  having 
introduced  Lewis  into  the  family,  or  permitted 
him  to  confer  an  obligation  which  had  brought 
ruin  upon  us  all.  He  begged  me,  whatever  might 
be  the  event  of  the  ensuing  morning,  not  to  suf- 
fer regret  or  unavailing  sorrow  for  his  fate,  to 
increase  the  anguish  of  my  heart,  which  he  great- 
ly feared  was  already  insupportable. 

4  This  letter  was  delivered  to  me  early  in  the 
morning.  It  would  be  in  vain  to  attempt  des- 
cribing my  feelings  on  the  perusal  of  it  ,*  suffice 
it  to  say,  that  a  merciful  Providence  interposed* 
and  I  was  for  three  weeks  insensible  to  miseries 
almost  beyond  the  strength  of  human  nature  to 
support* 


15 

*  A  fever  and  strong  delirium  seized  me,  and 
my  life  was  despaired  of.  At  length,  nature, 
overpowered  with  fatigue,  gave  way  to  the  salu- 
tary power  of  rest,  and  a  quiet  slumber  of  some 
hours  restored  me  to  reason,  though  the  extreme 
weakness  of  my  frame  prevented  my  feeling  my 
distress  so  accutely  as  I  otherwise  should. 

'The  first  object  that  struck  me  on  awaking, 
was  Lucy  sitting  by  my  bed  side  ;  her  pale  coun- 
tenance and  sable  dress  prevented  my  inquiries 
for  poor  George  ;  for  the  letter  I  had  received 
from  him  was  the  first  thing  that  occurred  to  my 
memory.  By  degrees  the  rest  returned.  Ire- 
collected  being  arrested,  but  could,  no  way  ac- 
count for  being  in  this  appartment,  whither  they 
had  conveyed  me  during  my  illness. 

' 1  was  so  weak  as  to  be  almost  unable  to  speak, 
pressed  Lucy's  hand,  and  looked  earnestly  round 
the  apartment,  in  search  of  another  dear  object. 

'  Where  is  your  mother  V  said  I,  faintly. 

*  The  poor  girl  could  not  answer :  she  shook 
her  head  in  expressive  silence ;  and  throwing 
herself  on  the  bed,  folded  her  arms  about  me, 
an  J  burst  into  tears. 

*    What !  both  gone  V  said  I. 

*  Both,'  she  replied,  endeavouring  to  restrain 
her  emotions ;  '  but  they  are  happy,  no  doubt.' 

Here  Mr.  Eldridge  paused;  the  recollection 
of  the  scene  was  too  painful  to  permit  him  to 
proceed. 


\ 


CHAP.  IV. 

Change  of  fortune, 

c  IT  was  some  days,'  continued  Mr.  Fldridge, 
recovering  himself,  •  before  I  could  venture  to 
inquire  the  particulars  of  what  had  happened 
during  my  illness.  A,t  length  I  assumed  cou- 
rage to  ask  my  dear  girl  how  long  her  mother 
and  brother  had  been  dead  ;  she  told  me  that  the 
morning  after  my  arrest,  George  came  home 
early  to  inquire  after  his  mother's  health,  staid 
with  them  but  a  few  minutes,  seemed  greatly  agi- 
tated at  parting,  but  gave  them  strict  charge  to 
keep  up  their  spirits,  and  hope  every  thing  would 
turn  out  for  the  best.  In  about  two  hours  after, 
as  they  were  sitting  at  breakfast,  and  endeavour- 
ing to  strike  out  some  plan  to  obtain  my  liberty, 
they  heard  a  loud  rap  at  the  door,  which  Lucy 
running  to  open,  she  met  the  bleeding  body  of 
her  brother,  borne  in  by  two  men,  who  had  lift- 
ed him  from  a  litter,  on  which  they  had  brought 
him  from  the  place  where  he  fought.  Her  poor 
mother,  weakened  by  illness  and  the  struggles  of 
the  preceding  night,  was  not  able  to  support 
this  shock ;  gasping  for  her  breath,  her  looks 
wild  and  haggard,  she  reached  the  apartment 
where  they  had  carried  her  dying  son.  She 
knelt  by  the  bed  side,  and  taking  his  cold  hand, 
c  my  poor  boy,'  said  she,  '  I  will  not  be  parted 
from  thee  ;  husband !  son !  both  at  once  lost.  Fa- 
ther of  mercies,  spare  me  !'  She  fell  into  a  stronr 
convulsion,  and  expired  in  about  two  hours, 
the  meantime,  a  surgeon  had  dressed  Geor  ~ 


17 

wounds  ;  but  they  were  in  such  a  situation  as  to 
bar  the  smallest  hopes  of  recovery.  He  never 
was  sensible  from  the  time  he  was  brought  home, 
and  died  that  evening  in  the  arms  of  his  sister. 

'JLate  as  it  was  when  this  event  took  place, 
my  affectionate  Lucy  insisted  on  coming  to  me. 
1  What  must  he  feel,'  said  she,  'at  our  apparent 
neglect ;  how  shall  I  inform  him  of  the  afflictions 
with  which  it  has  pleased  heaven  to  visit  us  ?' 

4  She  left  the  care  of  the  dear  departed  ones  to 
some  neighbours,  who  had  kindly  come  in  to 
comfort  and  assist  her ;  and  on  entering  the  house 
where  I  was  confined,  found  me  in  the  situation 
I  have  mentioned. 

4  How  she  supported  herself  in  these  trying 
moments,  I  know  not ;  heaven,  no  doubt,  was 
with  her ;  and  her  anxiety  to  preserve  the  life 
of  one  parent,  in  some  measure  abated  her  afflic- 
tion for  the  loss  of  the  other. 

4  My  circumstances  were  greatly  embarrassed, 
my  acquaintance  few,  and  those  few  utterly  un- 
able to  assist  me.  When  my  wife  and  son  were 
committed  to  the  kindred  earth,  my  creditors 
seized  my  house  and  furniture,  which  not  being 
sufficient  to  discharge  all  their  demands,  detain- 
ers were  lodged  against  me.  No  friend  stepped 
forward  to  my  relief.  From  the  grave  of  her 
mother,  my  beloved  Lucy  followed  an  almost 
dying  father  to  this  melancholy  place. 

4  Here  we  have  been  nearly  a  year  and  a  half. 
My  half-pay  I  have  given  up  to  satisfy  my  cre- 
ditors, and  my  child  supports  me  by  her  indus- 
try— sometimes  by  fine  needle-work,  sometimes 
by  painting.  She  leaves  me  every  night,  and 
B-2 


18 

goes  to  a  lodging  near  the  bridge ;  but  returns 
in  the  morning,  to  cheer  me  with  her  smiles,  and 
bless  me  by  her  duteous  affection.  A  lady  once 
offered  her  an  asylum  in  her  family,  but  she 
would  not  leave  me.  4  We  are  all  the  world  to 
each  other,'  said  she ;  '  I  thank  God,  I  have 
health  and  spirits  to  improve  the  talents  with 
which  nature  has  endowed  me ;  and  I  trust  if  I 
employ  them  in  the  support  of  a  beloved  parent, 
I  shall  not  be  thought  an  unprofitable  servant. 
"While  he  lives,  I  pray  for  strength  to  pursue  my 
employment  ,*  and  when  it  pleases  heaven  to  take 
one  of  us,  may  it  give  the  survivor  resignation 
to  bear  the  separation  as  we  ought ;  till  then  I 
will  never  leave  him.' 

4  But  where  is  this  inhuman  persecutor  V  said 
Temple. 

4  He  has  been  abroad  ever  since,'  replied  the 
old  man ;  4  but  he  has  left  orders  with  his  law- 
yer never  to  give  up  the  note  till  the  utmost  far- 
thing is  paid.' 

'  And  how  much  is  the  amount  of  your  debt 
in  all  r'  said  Temple. 

*  Five  hundred  pounds,'  he  replied. 

Temple  started  j  it  was  more  than  he  expect- 
ed. 4  But  something  must  be  done,'  said  he :  •  that 
sweet  maid  must  not  wear  out  her  life  in  a  pri- 
son. I  will  see  you  again  to-morrow,  my  friend,' 
said  he,  shaking  Eldridge's  hand :  4  keep  up  your 
spirits ;  light  and  shade  are  not  more  happily 
blended  than  are  the  pleasures  and  pains  of  life ; 
and  the  horrors  of  the  one  serve  only  to  increase 
the  splendour  of  the  other.' 

4  You  never  lost  a  wife  and  son,'  sa?d  Eldridgc. 


19 

<  No,'  replied  he,  c  but  I  can  feel  for  those  thai 
have.'  Eldridge  pressed  his  hand  as  they  went 
toward  the  door,  and  they  parted  in  silence. 

When  they  got  without  the  walls  of  the  pri- 
son, Temple  thanked  his  friend  Blakeney  for  in- 
troducing him  to  so  worthy  a  character ;  and 
telling  him  he  had  a  particular  engagement  in 
the  city,  wished  him  a  good  evening. 

'  And  what  is  to  be  done  for  this  distressed 
man  V  said  Temple,  as  he  walked  up  Ludgate 
Hill.  '  Would  to  heaven  I  had  a  fortune  that 
would  enable  me  instantly  to  discharge  his  debt  3 
what  exquisite  transport,  to  see  the  expressive 
eyes  of  Lucy  beaming  at  once  with  pleasure  for 
her  father's  deliverance,  and  gratitude  for  her 
deliverer  :  but  is  not  my  fortune  affluence,'  con- 
tinued he,  '  nay  superfluous  wealth,  when  com- 
pared to  the  extreme  indigence  of  Kldridge ;  and 
what  have  I  done  to  deserve  ease  and  plenty, 
while  a  brave  worthy  officer  starves  in  prison  £ 
Three  hundred  a  year  is  surely  sufficient  for  all 
my  wants  and  wishes :  at  any  rate  Eldridge 
must  be  relieved.' 

When  the  heart  has  will,  the  hands  can  soon 
iind  means  to  execute  a  good  action. 

Temple  was  a  young  man,  his  feelings  warm 
and  impetuous  ;  unacquainted  with  the  world, 
his  heart  had  not  been  rendered  callous  by  being 
convinced  of  its  fraud  and  hypocrisy.  He  pitied 
their  sufferings,  overlooked  their  faults,  thought 
every  bosom  as  generous  as  his  own,  and  would 
cheerfully  have  divided  his  last  guinea  with  an 
unfortunate  fellow  creature. 

No  wonder  then  that  such  a  man  (without 


20 

waiting  a  moment  for  the  interference  of  Madam 
Prudence)  should  resolve  to  raise  money  suffi- 
cient for  the  relief  of  Eldridge,  by  mortgaging 
part  of  his  fortune. 

We  will  not  inquire  too  minutely  into  the 
cause  which  might  actuate  him  in  this  instance  : 
suffice  it  to  say,  he  immediately  put  the  plan  in 
execution ;  and  in  three  days  from  the  time  he 
first  saw  the  unfortunate  Lieutenant,  he  had  the 
superlative  felicity  of  seeing  him  at  liberty,  and 
receiving  an  ample  reward  in  the  tearful  eye  and 
half  articulated  thanks  of  the  grateful  Lucy. 

1  And  pray  young  man,'  said  his  father  to  him 
one  morning, '  what  are  your  designs  in  visiting 
thus  constantly  that  old  man  and  his  daughter.' 

Temple  was  at  a  loss  for  a  reply :  he  had  ne- 
ver asked  himself  the  question ;  he  hesitated, 
and  his  father  continued 

'  It  was  not  till  within  these  few  days  that  I 
heard  in  what  manner  your  acquaintance  first 
commenced,  and  cannot  suppose  any  thing  but 
attachment  to  the  daughter  could  carry  you  such 
imprudent  lengths  for  the  father :  it  certainly 
must  be  her  art  that  drew  you  in  to  mortgage 
part  of  your  fortune.' 

4  Art,  Sir !'  cried  Temple  eagerly.  I  Lucy  El- 
dridge is  as  free  from  art  as  she  is  from  every 
other  error  :  she  is ' 

4  Every  thing  that  is  amiable  and  lovely,'  said 
his  father,  interrupting  him  ironically :  'no  doubt 
in  your  opinion  she  is  a  pattern  of  excellence  for 
all  her  sex  to  follow ;  but  come,  Sir,  pray  tell 
me  what  are  your  designs  towards  this  paragon. 
I  hope  you  do  not  intend  to  complete  your  folly 
by  marrying  her.' 


21 

4  Were  my  fortune  such  as  would  support  her 
according  to  her  merit,  I  do  not  know  a  woman 
more  formed  to  ensure  happiness  in  the  married 
state.' 

4  Then,  prithee,  my  dear  lad,'  said  his  father, 
*  since  your  rank  and  fortune  are  so  much  beneath 
what  your  Princess  might  expect,  be  so  kind  as 
to  turn  your  eyes  to  Miss  Weatherby;  who,  hav- 
ing only  an  estate  of  three 'thousand  a  year,  is 
more  upon  a  level  with  you,  and  whose  father 
yesterday  solicited  the  mighty  honour  of  your 
alliance.  I  shall  leave  you  to  consider  on  this 
offer;  and  pray  remember  that  your  union  with 
Miss  Weatherby  will  put  it  in  your  power  to  be 
more  liberally  the  friend  of  Lucy  Eldridge.' 

The  old  gentleman  walked  in  a  stately  man- 
ner out  of  the  room ;  and  Temple  stood  almost 
petrified  with  astonishment,  contempt  and  rage. 


CHAP.  V. 

Such  things  are. 

,  MISS  WEATHERBY  was  the  only  child 
of  a  wealthy  man,  almost  idolized  by  her  parents, 
flattered  by  her  dependents,  and  never  contra- 
dicted even  by  those  who  called  themselves  her 
friends  :  I  cannot  give  a  better  description  than 
by  the  following  lines  : 

The  lovely  maid,  whose  form  and  face 
Nature  has  deck'd  with  every  grace, 
But  in  whose  breast  no  virtues  q-low, 
Whose  heart  ne'er  felt  another's  woe. 


22 

Whose  hand  ne'er  smooth'd  the  bed  of  pain, 
Or  eas'd  the  captive's  grilling"  chain; 
But  like  the  tulip,  caught  the  eye, 
Born  just  to  be  admir'd,  and  die; 
When  gone,  no  one  regrets  its  loss, 
Or  scarce  remembers  that  it  was. 

Such  was  Miss  Weatherby ;  her  form  lovely 
as  nature  could  make  it,  but  her  mind  uncultivat- 
ed, her  heart  unfeeling,  her  passions  impetuous, 
and  her  brain  almost  turned  with  flattery,  dissi- 
pation, and  pleasure ;  and  such  was  the  girl 
whom  a  partial  grandfather  left  independent 
mistress  of  the  fortune  before  mentioned. 

She  had  seen  Temple  frequently ;  and  fancy- 
ing she  could  never  be  happy  without  him,  nor 
once  imagining  he  could  refuse  a  girl  of  her 
beauty  and  fortune,  she  prevailed  on  her  fond  fa- 
ther ttfoffer  the  alliance  to  the  old  Earl  of  D  , 
Mr.  Temble's  father. 

The  Earl  had  received  the  offer  courteously : 
he  thought  it  a  great  match  for  Henry ;  and  was 
too  fashionable  a  man  to  suppose  a  wife  could 
be  any  impediment  to  the  friendship  he  possess- 
ed for  Eldridge  and  his  daughter. 

Unfortunately  for  Temple,  he  thought  quite 
otherwise  ;  the  conversation  he  had  just  had 
with  his  father,  discovered  to  him  the  situation 
of  his  heart :  and  he  found  that  the  most  afflu- 
ent fortune  would  bring  no  increase  of  happiness 
unless  Lucy  Eldridge  shared  it  with  him ;  and 
the  knowledge  of  the  purity  of  her  sentiments, 
and  the  integrity  of  his  own  heart,  made  him 
shudder  at  the  idea  his  father  had  started,  of 
marrying  a  woman  for  no  other  reason  than  be- 
cause the  affluence  of  her  fortune  would  enable 


23 

him  to  injure  her  by  maintaining  in  splendour  the 
woman  to  whom  his  heart  was  devoted :  he 
therefore  resolved  to  refuse  Miss  Weatherby, 
and  be  the  event  what  it  might,  offer  his  heart 
and  hand  to  Lucy  Eldridge. 

Full  of  this  determination,  he  sought  his  fa- 
ther, declared  his  resolution,  and  was  command- 
ed never  more  to  appear  in  his  presence.  Tem- 
ple bowed  :  his  heart  was  too  full  to  permit  him 
to  speak  :  he  left  the  house  precipitately,  and 
hastened  to  relate  the  cause  of  his  sorrows  to  his 
good  old  friend  and  his  amiable  daughter. 

In  the  meantime,  the  Earl,  vexed  to  the  soul, 
that  such  a  fortune  should  be  lost,  determined 
to  offer  himself  a  candidate  for  Miss  Weather- 
by's  favour. 

What  wonderful  changes  are  wrought  by  that 
reigning  power,  ambition  !  the  love-sick  girl, 
when  first  she  heard  of  Temple's  refusal,  wept, 
raved,  tore  her  hair,  and  vowed  to  found  a  pro- 
testant  nunnery  with  her  fortune  ;  and  by  com- 
mencing abbess,  shut  herself  up  from  the  sight 
of  cruel,  ungrateful  man  forever. 

Her  father  was  a  man  of  the  world ;  he  suf- 
fered this  first  transport  to  subside,  and  then 
very  deliberately  unfolded  to  her  the  offers  of 
the  old  Earl,  expatiating  on  the  many  benefits 
arising  from  an  elevated  title,  painted  in  glowing 
colours  the  surprise  and  vexation  of  Temple 
when  he  should  see  her  figuring  as  a  Countess 
and  his  mother-in-law,  and  begged  her  to  con- 
sider well  before  she  made  any  rash  vows. 

The  distressed  fair  one  dried  her  tears,  listen- 
ed patiently,  and  at  length  declared  she  believ- 


24 

ed  the  surest  method  to  revenge  the  slight  put 
upon  her  by  the  son  would  be  to  accept  the  fa- 
ther ;  so  said,  so  done,  and  in  a  few  days  she 
became  the  Countess  of  D . 

Temple  heard  the  news  with  emotion  :  he  had 
lost  his  father's  favour  by  avowing  his  passion 
for  Lucy,  and  he  saw  now  there  was  no  hope  of 
regaining  it ;  '  but  he  shall  not  make  me  miser- 
able,' said  he  ;  4  Lucy  and  I  have  no  ambitious 
notions ;  we  can  live  on  three  hundred  a  year 
for  some  little  time,  till  the  mortgage  is  paid  off, 
and  then  we  shall  have  sufficient,  not  only  for 
the  comfort,  but  many  of  the  little  elegancies  of 
life.  We  will  purchase  a  little  cottage,  my  Lu- 
cy,' said  he,  *  and  thither,  with  your  revered  fa- 
ther, we  will  retire  ;  we  will  forget  there  are 
such  things  as  splendour,  profusion  and  dissipa- 
tion ;  we  will  have  some  cows,  and  you  shall  be 
queen  of  the  dairy  ;  in  a  morning,  while  I  look 
after  my  garden,  you  shall  take  a  basket  on  your 
arm,  and  sally  forth  to  feed  your  poultry ;  and 
as  they  flutter  round  you  in  token  of  humble 
gratitude,  your  father  shall  smoke  his  pipe  in  a 
woodbine  alcove,  and  viewing  the  serenity  of 
your  countenance,  feel  such  real  pleasure  dilate 
his  own  heart,  as  shall  make  him  forget  he  had 
ever  been  unhappy. 

Lucy  smiled  ;  and  Temple  saw  it  was  a  smile 
of  approbation.  He  sought  and  found  a  cottage 
suited  to  his  taste  :  thither,  attended  by  Love 
and  Hymen,  the  happy  trio  retired  :  where,  dur- 
ing many  years  of  uninterrupted  felicity,  they 
cast  not  a  wish  beyond  the  little  boundaries  of 
their  own  tenement.    Plenty,  and  her  handmaid 


25 

Prudence,  presided  at  their  board  ;  Hospitality 
stood  at  their  gate  ;  Peace  smiled  on  each  face  ; 
Content  reigned  in  each  heart,  and  Love  and 
Health  strewed  roses  on  their  pillows. 

Such  were  the  parents  of  Charlotte  Temple, 
who  was  the  only  pledge  of  their  mutual  love, 
and  who,  at  the  earnest  entreaty  of  a  particular 
friend,  was  permitted  to  finish  the  education  her 
mother  had  begun,  at  Madame  Du  Pont's  school, 
where  we  first  introduced  her  to  the  acquaint- 
ance of  the  reader. 


CHAP.  VI. 

An  intriguing  teacher. 

MADAME  DU  PONT  was  a  woman 
every  way  calculated  to  take  the  care  of  young 
ladies^  had  that  care  devolved  on  herself;  but  it 
was  impossible  to  attend  the  enducation  of  a  nu- 
merous school  without  proper  assistants;  and 
those  assistants  were  not  always  the  kind  of  peo- 
ple whose  conversation  and  morals  were  exactly 
such  as  parents  of  delicacy  and  refinement  would 
wish  a  daughter  to  copy.  Among  the  teachers 
at  Madame  Du  Pont's  school,  was  Mademoi- 
selle La  Rue,  who  added  to  a  pleasing  person 
an  insinuating  address,  a  liberal  education  and 
the  manners  of  a  gentlewoman.  She  was  recom- 
mended to  the  school  by  a  lady  whose  humanity 
overstepped  the  bounds  of  discretion ;  for  though 
she  knew  Miss  La  Rue  had  eloped  from  a  con- 
vent with  a  young  officer,  and  on  coining  to  Eng- 
C 


26 

land,  had  lived  with  several  different  men  in  open 
defiance  of  all  moral  and  religious  duties ;  yet, 
finding  her  reduced  to  the  most  abject  want,  ar  &* 
believing  the  penitence  which  she  professed  to 
be  sincere,  she  took  her  into  her  own  family,  and 
from  thence  recommended  her  to  Madame  Du 
Pont,  as  thinking  the  situation  more  suitable  for 
a  woman  of  her  abilities.  But  Mademoiselle 
possessed  too  much  of  the  spirit  of  intrigue  to 
remain  long  without  adventures.  At  church, 
where  she  constantly  appeared,  her  person  at- 
tracted the  attention  of  a  young  man  who  was 
upon  a  visit  at  a  gentleman's  seat  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood ;  she  met  him  several  times  clan- 
destinely ;  and  being  invited  to  come  out  that 
evening,  and  eat  some  fruit  and  pastry  in  a  sum- 
mer-house belonging  to  the  gentleman  he  was 
visiting,  and  requested  to  bring  some  of  the  la- 
dies with  her,  Charlotte,  being  her  favourite, 
was  fixed  on  to  accompany  her. 

The  mind  of  youth  eagerly  catches  at  promis- 
ed pleasure;  pure  and  innocent  by  nature,  it 
thinks  not  of  the  dangers  lurking  beneath  those 
pleasures,  till  too  late  to  avoid  them ;  when  Ma- 
demoiselle asked  Charlotte  to  go  with  her,  she 
mentioned  the  gentleman  as  a  relation,  and  spoke 
in  such  high  terms  of  the  elegance  of  his  gar- 
den:  the  sprightliness  of  his  conversation,  and 
the  iiw-  'ity  with  which  he  ever  entertained  his. 
guests,  what  Charlotte  thought  only  of  the  plea-, 
sure  she  should  enjoy  in  the  visit, — not  on  the 
imprudence  of  going  without  her  governess' 
knowledge,  or  of  the  danger  to  which  she  ex- 
posed herself  in  visiting  the  house  of  a  gay  young 
man  of  fashion. 


27 
Madame  Du  pont  was  going  out  for  the  even- 
ing and  the  rest  of  the  ladies  retired  to  rest, 
when  Charlotte  and  the  teacher  stole  out  at  the 
back  gate,  and  in  crossing  the  field  were :  accos  - 
ed  by   Montraville,  as  mentioned  in  the  first 

Ch  Charlotte  was  disappointed  in  the  pleasure  she 
had  promised  herself  from  this  visit.  The  levi- 
tv  of  the  gentleman  and  the  freedom  of  their 
conversation  disgusted  her.  She  was  astonish- 
ed at  the  liberties  Mademoiselle  permitted 
them  to  take  ;-grew  thoughtful  and  uneasy,  and 
heartily  wished  herself  at  home  again  in  her 
own  chamber.  .        , 

Perhaps  one  cause  of  that  wish  might  be,  an 
earnest  desire  to  see  the  contents  of  the  le  tet 
which  had  been  put  into  her  hand  by  Montra- 

1  Any  reader  who  has  the  least  knowledge  of  the 
world,  will  easily  imagine  the  letter  was  made 
up  of  encomiums  on  the  beauty,  and  vows  ot 
everlasting  love  and  constancy;  nor  will  he  be 
surprised  that  a  heart  open  to  every  gentle,  gen- 
erous sentiment,  should  feel  itself  warmed  by 
cratitude  for  a  man  who  professed  to  teel  so 
much  for  her.  Nor  is  it  improbable  but  her 
mind  might  revert  to  the  agreeable  person  and 
martial  appearance  of  Montraville. 

In  affairs  of  love,  a  young  heart  is  never  ra 
more  danger  than  when  attempted  by  a  hand- 
some young  soldier.  A  man  of  an  indifferent 
appearance  will,  when  arrayed  in  military  habit, 
shew  to  advantage  ;  but  when  beauty  of  person, 
elegance  of  manners,  and  an  easy  method  ot  pay* 


28 

ing  compliments,  are  united  to  the  scarlet  coat* 
smart  cockade,  and  military  sash,  ah !  well-a-day 
for  a  poor  girl  who  gazes  on  him ;  she  is  in  im- 
minent danger;  but  if  she  listens  to  him  with 
pleasure,  7tis  all  over  with  her,  and  from  that 
*  moment  she  has  neither  eyes  nor  ears  for  any 
other  object. 

Now,  my  dear  sober  matron,  (if  a  sober  ma- 
tron should  deign  to  turn  over  these  pages,  be- 
fore she  trusts  them  to  the  eye  of  a  darling 
daughter)  let  me  entreat  you  not  to  put  on  a 
grave  face,  and  throw  down  the  book  in  a  pas- 
sion and  declare  'tis  enough  to  turn  the  heads  of 
half  the  girls  in  England ;  I  do  solemnly  protest, 
my  dear  madam,  I  mean  no  more  by  what  I 
have  here  advanced,  than  to  ridicule  those  ro- 
mantic girls  who  foolishly  imagine  a  red  coat 
and  silver  epaulette  constitute  the  fine  gentle- 
man :  and  should  that  fine  gentleman  make  half 
a  dozen  fine  speeches  to  them,  they  will  imagine 
themselves  so  much  in  love  as  to  fancy  it  a  me- 
ritorious action  to  jump  out  of  a  two  pair  of 
stairs  window,  abandon  their  friends,  and  trust 
entirely  to  the  honour  of  a  man,  who,  perhaps, 
hardly  knows  the  meaning  of  the  word,  and  if 
he  does,  will  be  too  much  the  modern  man  of 
refinement,  to  practise  it  in  their  favour. 

Gracious  heaven  !  when  I  think  on  the  mise- 
ries that  must  rend  the  heart  of  a  doating  parent, 
when  he  sees  the  darling  of  his  age  at  first  se- 
duced from  his  protection,  and  afterwards  aban- 
doned, by  the  very  wretch  whose  promises  of 
love  decoyed  her  from  her  paternal  roof—when 
he  sees  her  poor  and  wretched,  her  bosom  torn 


29 

between  remorse  for  her  crime,  and  love  for  her 
vile  betrayer — when  fancy  paints  to  me  the  good 
old  man  stooping  to  raise  the  weeping  penitent, 
while  every  tear  from  her  eye  is  numbered  by 
drops  from  his  bleeding  heart,  my  bosom  glows 
with  honest  indignation,  and  I  wish  for  power 
to  extirpate  those  monsters  of  seduction  from  the 
earth. 

Oh  my  dear  girls,  for  to  such  only  am  I  writ- 
ing, listen  not  to  the  voice  of  love,  unless  sanc- 
tioned by  paternal  approbation ;  be  assured  it  is 
now  past  the  days  of  romance ;  no  woman  can 
be  run  away  with  contrary  to  her  own  inclina- 
tion ;  then  kneel  down  each  morning,  and  re- 
quest kind  heaven  to  keep  you  free  from  temp- 
tation, or,  should  it  please  to  suffer  you  to  be 
tried,  pray  for  fortitude  to  resist  the  impulse  of 
inclination  when  it  runs  counter  to  the  precepts 
of  religion  and  virtue. 


CHAP.  VII. 

Natural  sense  of  propriety  inherent  in  the  female 
bosom, 

4 1  CANNOT  think  w*  have  done  exactly 
right  in  going  out  this  evening,  Mademoiselle,' 
said  Charlotte,  seating  herself  when  she  entered 
her  apartment,  'nay,  lam  sure  it  was  not  right; 
for  I  expected  to  be  very  happy,  but  was  sadly 
disappointed.' 

'It  was  your  own  fault,  then,'  replied  Made- 
moiselle, '  for  I  am  sure  my  cousin  omitted  no- 
C-2 


thing,  that  could  serve  to  render  the  evening 
agreeable.' 

4  True/  said  Charlotte, c  but  I  thought  the  gen- 
tlemen were  very  free  in  their  manner ;  I  won- 
der you  could  suffer  them  to  behave  as  they  did.' 

c  Prithee  do  not  be  such  a  foolish  little  prude,' 
said  the  artful  woman,  affecting  anger ;  *  I  invit- 
ed you  to  go,  in  hopes  it  would  divert  you,  and 
be  an  agreeable  change  of  scene  ;  however,  if 
your  delicacy  was  hurt  by  the  behaviour  of  the 
gentlemen,  you  need  not  go  again  ;  so  there  let 
it  rest.' 

*  I  do  not  intend  ta  ga  again,'  said  Charlotte, 
gravely  taking  off  her  bonnet,  and  beginning  to 
prepare  for  bed :  '  I  am  sure,  if  Madame  Ou 
Pont  knew  we  had  been  out  to-night,  she^ would 
be  very  angry ;  and  it  is  ten  to  one  but  she  hears 
of  it,  by  some  means  or  other.' 

*  Nay,  Miss,'  said  La  Rue,  c  perhaps  your 
mighty  sense  of  propriety  may  lead  you  to  tell  her 
yourself;  and  in  order  to  avoid  the  censure  you 
would  incur,  should  she  hear  of  it  by  accident, 
throw  the  blame  on  me  :  But  I  confess  I  deserve 
it ;  it  will  be  a  very  kind  return  for  that  partia- 
lity which  led  me  to  prefer  you  before  any  of 
the  rest  of  the  ladies ;  but  perhaps  it  will  give 
you  pleasure,'  continued  she,  letting  fall  some 
hypocritical  tears,  *  to  see  me  deprived  of  bread, 
and  for  an  action  which,  by  the  most  rigid,  could 
only  be  esteemed  an  inadvertency,  lose  my  place 
and  character,  and  be  turned  again  into  the  world, 
where  I  have  already  suffered  all  the  evils  atten- 
dant on  poverty.' 

This  was  touching  Charlotte  in  the  mo*t  vul- 


31 

nefable  part :  she  rose  from  her  seat,  and  taking 
Mademoiselle's  hand — *  You  know  my  dear  La 
Rue,'  said  she,  4 1  love  you  too  well  to  do  any 
thing  that  would  injure  you  in  my  governess* 
opinion ;  I  am  only  sorry  we  went  out  this  even- 
ing.' 

8 1  do  not  believe  it  Charlotte,'  said  she  assum- 
ing a  little  vivacity ;  *  if  you  had  not  gone  out 
you  would  not  have  seen  the  gentleman  who  met 
us  crossing  the  field ;  I  rather  think  you  was 
pleased  with  his  conversation.' 

'  I  had  seen  him  once  before,'  replied  Char* 
lotte,  *  and  thought  him  an  agreeable  man ;  and 
you  know  one  is  always  pleased  to  see  a  persons 
with  whom  one  has  passed  several  cheerful  hours. 
But,'  said  she,  pausing,  and  drawing  the  letter 
from  her  pocket,  while  a  gentle  suffusion  of  ver- 
milion tinged  her  neck  and  face,  '  he  gave  me 
this  letter;  what  shall  I  do  with  it?' 

•  Read  It,  to  be  sure,'  returned  Mademoiselle* 
'I  am  afraid  I  ought  not,'  said  Charlotte ; 

6  my  mother  has  often  told  me,  I  should  never 
read  a  letter  given  me  by  a  young  man,  without 
first  giving  it  to  her.' 

•  Lord  bless  you,  rrfy  dear  girl,'  cried  the  teach- 
er, smiling,  «  have  you  a  mind  to  be  in  leading 
strings  all  your  lifetime  I  Prithee,  open  the  let- 
ter, read  it,  and  judge  for  yourself ;  if  you  show 
it  your  mother,  the  consequence  Will  be,  you  will 
be  taken  from  school,  and  a  strict  guard  kept 
over  you ;  so  you  will  stand  no  chance  of  ever 
seeing  the  smart  young  officer  again.' 

•  I  should  not  like  to  leave  school  yet,'  repli- 
ed Charlotte^  'until  I  have  attained  a  greater 


32 

proficiency  in  my  Italian  and  music.  But  you 
can,  if  you  please,  Mademoiselle,  take  the  letter 
back  to  Montraville,  and  tell  him  I  wish  him 
well,  but  cannot,  with  any  propriety,  enter  into 
a  clandestine  correspondence  with  him.'  She 
laid  the  letter  on  a  table,  and  began  to  undress 
herself. 

*  Well,'  said  La  Rue,  *  I  vow  you  are  an  un- 
accountable girl ;  have  you  no  curiosity  to  see 
the  inside  now  ?  For  my  part,  I  could  no  more 
let  a  letter  addressed  to  me  lie  unopened  so  long, 
than  I  could  work  miracles.  He  writes  a  good 
hand,'  continued  she,  turning  the  letter  to  look 
at  the  superscription. 

4  'Tis  well  enough,'  said  Charlotte,  drawing  it 
towards  her. 

4  He  is  a  genteel  young  fellow,'  said  La  Rue, 
carelessly,  folding  up  her  apron  at  the  same  time, 
4  but  I  think  he  is  marked  with  the  small-pox.' 

*  Oh,  you  are  greatly  mistaken,'  said  Char- 
lotte, eagerly ;  4  he  has  a  remarkable  clear  skin 
and  fine  complexion.' 

4  His  eyes,  if  I  could  judge  by  what  I  saw/ 
said  La  Rue,  '  are  grey,  and  want  expression.' 

4  By  no  means,'  replied  Charlotte  ;  they  are 
the  most  expressive  eyes  I  ever  saw.' 

4  Well,  child,  whether  they  are  grey  or  black, 
is  of  no  consequence;  you  have  determined  not 
to  read  his  letter ;  so  it  is  likely  you  will  never 
cither  see  or  hear  from  him  again.' 

Charlotte  took  up  the  letter,  and  Mademoi- 
selle continued — 

4  He  is  most  probably  going  to  America ;  and 
if  ever  you  should  hear  any  account  of  him,  it 


S3 

may  be  that  he  is  killed ;  and  though  he  loved 
you  ever  so  fervently,  though  his  last  breath  be 
spent  in  a  prayer  for  your  happiness*  it  ean  be 
nothing  to  you ;  you  can  feel  nothing  for  the  fate 
of  a  man,  whose  letters  you  will  not  open,  and 
whose  sufferings  you  will  not  alleviate,  by  per- 
mitting him  to -think  you  would  remember  him 
when  absent,  and  pray  for  his  safety  ^ 

Charlotte  still  held  the  letter  in  her  hand ;  hetf 
heart  swelled  at  the  conclusion  of  Mademoiselle's 
speech,  and  a  tear  dropped  upon  the  wafer  that 
closed  it. 

4  The  wafer  is  not  dry  yet/  said  she, *  and  sure 
there  can  be  no  great  harm'— she  hesitated«*~L« 
Rue  was  silent.  I  may  read  it,  Mademoiselle^ 
and  return  it  afterwards.' 

*  Certainly,'  replied  Mademoiselle. 

*  At  any  rate,  I  am  determined  not  to  answer 
it,'  continued  Charlotte,  as  she  opened  the  letter* 

Here  let  me  stop  to  make  one  remark,  and 
trust  me  my  very  heart  aches  while  I  write  it  % 
but  certain  I  am,  that  when  once  a  woman  has 
stifled  the  sense  of  shame  in  her  own  bosom, 
when  once  she  has  lost  sight  of  that  basis  on 
which  reputation,  honour,  every  thing  that  should 
be  dear  to  the  female  heart,  rests  $  she  grows 
hardened  in  guilt,  and  will  spare  no  pains  to 
bring  down  innocence  and  beauty  to  the  shock- 
ing level  with  herself ;  and  this  proceeds  from 
that  diabolical  spirit  of  envy*  which  repines  at 
seeing  another  in  the  full  possession  of  that  res- 
pect and  esteem  which  she  can  no  longer  hope 
to  enjoy. 

Mademoiselle  eyed  the  unsuspecting  Charlotte^ 


34  • 

as  she  perused  the  letter,  with  a  malignant  plea- 
sure. She  saw  that  the  contents  had  awakened 
new  emotions  in  her  youthful  bosom :  she  en- 
couraged her  hopes,  calmed  her  fears,  and  before 
they  parted  for  the  night,  it  was  determined  that 
she  should  meet  Montraville  the  ensuing  evening. 


CHAP.  VIII. 

Domestic  pleasures  planned. 

J I  THINK,  my  dear,'  said  Mrs.  Temple, 
laying  her  hand  on  her  husband's  arm,  as  they 
were  walking  together  in  the  garden,  I  think 
next  Wednesday  is  Charlotte's  birth  day ;  now 
I  have  formed  a  little  scheme  in  my  mind  to  give 
her  an  agreeable  surprise ;  and  if  you  have  no 
objection,  we  will  send  for  her  home  on  that  day.' 
Temple  pressed  his  wife's  hand  in  token  of  ap- 
probation, and  she  proceeded — 4  You  know  the 
little  alcove  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden,  of  which 
Charlotte  is  so  fond ;  I  have  an  inclination  to 
deck  this  out  in  a  fanciful  manner,  and  invite  all 
her  little  friends  to  partake  of  a  collation  of  fruit, 
sweetmeats,  and  other  things  suitable  to  the  gen- 
eral taste  of  young  guests  :  and  to  make  it  more 
pleasing  to  Charlotte,  she  shall  be  mistress  of 
the  feast,  and  entertain  her  visitors  in  this  alcove. 
I  know  she  will  be  delighted ;  and  to  complete 
all,  they  shall  have  some  music,  and  finish  with 
a  dance.' 

4  A  very  fine  plan,  indeed,'  said  Temple,  smil- 
ing ;  and  you  really  suppose  I  will  wink  at  you 


35 

indulging  the  girl  in  this  manner  ?  you  will  quite 
spoil  her,  Lucy ;  indeed  you  will.' 

4  She  is  the  only  child  we  have,'  said  Mrs. 
Temple ;    the   whole    tenderness  of  a  mother 
adding  animation  to  her  fine  countenance ;  but 
it  was  withal  tempered  so  sweetly  with  the  meek 
affection  and  submissive  duty  of  the  wife,  that, 
as  she  paused,  expecting  her  husband's  answer, 
he  gazed  at  her  tenderly,  and  found  he  was  un- 
able to  refuse  her  request. 
*  She  is  a  good  girl,'  said  Temple. 
'She  is  indeed,'  replied  the  fond  mother  ex- 
ultingly,  '  a  grateful,  affectionate  girl ;  and  I  am 
sure  will  never  lose  sight  of  the  duty  she  owes 
her  parents.' 

'  If  she  does,'  said  he,  '  she  must  forget  the 
example  set  her  by  the  best  of  mothers.' 

Mrs.  Temple  made  no  reply ;  but  the  delight- 
ful sensation  that  dilated  her  heart,  sparkled  in 
her  intelligent  eyes,  and  heightened  the  Vermil- 
lion of  her  cheeks.  t 

Of  all  the  pleasures  of  which  the  human  mind 
is  sensible,  there  is  none  equal  to  that  which 
warms  and  expands  the  bosom,  when  listening 
to  the  commendations  bestowed  on  us  by  a  be- 
loved object,  and  are  conscious  *>f  having  deserv- 
ed them. 

Ye  giddy  flatterers  in  the  fantastic  round  of 
dissipation,  who  eagerly  seek  pleasure  in  the  lof- 
ty dome,  rich  retreat,  and  midnight  revel — tell 
me,  ye  thoughtless  daughters  of  folly,  have  ye 
ever  found  the  phantom  you  have  so  long  sought 
with  such  unremitting  assiduity  ?  Has  she  not 
always  eluded  your  grasp ;  and  when  you  have.. 


36 

reached  your  hand  to  take  the  cup  she  extends 
to  her  deluded  votaries,  have  you  not  found  the 
long  expected  draught  strongly  tinctured  with 
the  bitter  dregs  of  disappointment  ?  I  know  you 
have ;  I  see  in  the  wan  cheek,  sunk  eye,  and  air 
of  chagrin,  which  ever  mark  the  children  of  dis- 
sipation, Pleasure  is  a  vain  illusion ;  she  draws 
you  on  to  a  thousand  follies,  errors,  and  I  may 
say  vices,  and  then  leaves  you  to  deplore  your 
thoughtless  credulity. 

Look,  my  dear  friends,  at  yonder  lovely  Vir- 

fin,  arrayed  in  a  white  robe  devoid  of  ornament; 
ehold  the  meekness  of  her  countenance,  the  mo- 
desty of  her  gait ;  her  handmaids  are  Humility , 
Filial  Piety ,  Conjugal  Affection,  Industry,  and 
Benevolence  ;  her  name  is  Content;  she  holds  in 
her  hand  the  cup  of  true  felicity ;  and  when  you 
have  formed  an  acquaintance  with  these  her  at- 
tendants, you  must  admit  them  as  your  bosom 
friends  and  chief  counsellors;  then,  whatever 
miy  be  your  situation  in  life,  the  meek  eyed 
Virgin  will  immediately  take  up  her  abode  with 
you. 

Is  poverty  your  portion  ?~-she  will  lighten  your 
labours,  preside  at  your  frugal  board,  and  watch 
your  quiet  slumbers. 

Is  your  state  mediocrity  ? — she  will  heighten 
every  blessing  you  enjoy,  by  informing  you  how 
grateful  you  should  be  to  that  bountiful  Provi- 
dence who  might  have  placed  you  in  the  most 
abject -situation ;  and  by  teaching  you  to  weigh 
your  blessings  against  your  deserts,  show  you 
Jiow  much  more  you  receive  than  you  have  a 
fcjght  to  expect* 


37 

Are  you  possessed  of  affluence  ? — what  an  in- 
exhaustible fund  of  happinesss  will  she  lay  be- 
fore you  ?  To  relieve  the  distressed,  redress  the 
injured,  in  short,  to  perform  all  the  good  work* 
of  peace  and  mercy. 

Content,  my  dear  friends,  will  blunt  even  the: 
arrows  of  adversity,  so  that  they  cannot  mate- 
rially harm  you.  She  will  dwell  in  the  humble 
cottage  :  she  will  attend  you  even  to  a  prison. 
Her  parent  is  Religion;  her  sisters  are  Patience 
and  Hope.  She  will  pass  with  you  through  life  ; 
smoothing  the  rough  paths,  and  tread  to  earth 
those  thorns  which  every  one  must  meet  with 
as  they  journey  onward  to  the  appointed  goal* 
She  will  soften  the  pains  of  sickness,  continue 
with  you  even  in  the  cold,  gloomy  hour  of  death* 
and,  cheering  you  with  the  smiles  of  her  heaven- 
born  sister,  Hope,  lead  you  triumphant  to  a 
blissful  eternity. 

I  confess  I  have  rambled  from  my  story :  but 
what  of  that  ?  If  I  have  been  so  lucky  as  to  find, 
the  road  to   happiness,  why  should  I  be  such  a 
niggard  as  to  omit  so   good  an  opportunity  of 
pointing  out  the  way  to  others  ?  The  very  basis 
of  true  peace  of  mind  is  a  benevolent  wish  to> 
see  all  the  world  as  happy  as  one's  self;    and, 
from  my  soul  do  I  pity  the  selfish  churl,  who* 
remembering  the  little  bickerings  of  anger,  en- 
vy, and  fifty  other  disagreeables  to  which  frails 
mortality  is  subject,  would  wish  to  revenge  the 
affront  which  pride  whispers  him  he  has  receiv- 
ed.    For  my  own  part,  I  can  safely  declare, 
th«re  is  not  a  human '  being  in  the  universe, 
whose  prosperity  I  should  not  rejoice  in,  and  to 
D 


38 

whose  happiness  I  would  not  contribute  to  the 
utmost  limit  of  my  power :  and  may  my  offen- 
ces be  no  more  remembered  in  the  day  of  gen- 
eral retribution,  than  as  from  my  soul  I  forgive 
every  offence  or  injury  received  from  a  fellow 
creature. 

Merciful  Heaven !  who  would  exchange  the 
rapture  of  such  a  reflection  for  all  the  gaudy 
tinsel  which  the  world  calls  pleasure. 

But  to  return.— Content  dwelt  in  Mrs.  Tem- 
ple's bosom,  and  spread  a  charming  animation 
over  her  countenance,  as  her  husband  led  her 
in,  to  lay  the  plan  she  had  formed  (for  the  cele- 
bration of  Charlotte's  birth  day)  before  Mr.  El- 
dridge. 


CHAP.  IX. 

We  know  not  what  a  day  may  bring  forth. 

VARIOUS  were  the  sensations  which  agi- 
tated the  mind  of  Charlotte,  during  the  day  pre- 
ceding the  evening  in  which  she  was  to  meet 
Montraville.  Several  times  did  she  almost  re- 
solve to  go  to  her  governess,  show  her  letter  and 
be  guided  by  her  advice :  but  Charlotte  had  ta- 
ken one  step  in  the  way  of  imprudence ;  and 
when  that  is  once  done,  there  are  always  innu- 
merable obstacles  to  prevent  the  erring  person 
returning  to  the  path  of  rectitude ;  yet  those  ob- 
stacles, however  forcible  they  may  appear  in 
general,  exist  chiefly  in  the  imagination. 


39 

Charlotte  feared  the  anger  of  her  governess  5 
she  loved  her  mother,  and  the  very  idea  of  in- 
curring her  displeasure,  gave  her  the  greatest 
uneasiness ;  but  there  was  a  more  forcible  rea- 
son still  remaining  :  should  she  show  the  letter 
to  Madame  Du  Pont,*  she  must  confess  the 
means  by  which  it  came  into  her  possession  ; 
and  what  would  be  the  consequence  ?  Mademoi- 
selle would  be  turned  out  of  doors, 

*  I  must  not  be  ungrateful,'  said  she ;  l  La 
Rue  is  very  kind  to  me  5  besides,  I  can,  when  I 
see  Montraville,  inform  him  of  the  impropriety 
of  our  continuing  to  see  or  correspond  with  each 
other,  and  request  him  to  come  no  more  to  Chi- 
chester.' 

However  prudent  Charlotte  might  be  in  these 
resolutions,  she  certainly  did  not  take  a  proper 
method  to  confirm  herself  in  them.  Several  times 
in  the  course  of  the  day  she  indulged  herself  in 
reading  over  the  letter,  and  each  time  she  read 
it  the  contents  sunk  deeper  into  her  heart.  As 
evening  drew  near,  she  caught  herself  frequent- 
ly consulting  her  watch.  J I  wish  this  foolish 
meeting  was  over,'  said  she,  by  way  of  apology 
to  her  own  heart, }  I  wish  it  was  over;  for  when 
I  have  seen  him  and  convinced  him  my  resolu- 
tion is  not  to  be  shaken,  I  shall  feel  my  mind 
much  easier.' 

The  appointed  hour  arrived.  Charlotte  and 
Mademoiselle  eluded  the  eye  of  vigilance ;  aad 
Montraville,  who  had  waited  their  coming  with 
impatience,  received  them  with  rapturous  and 
unbounded  acknowledgements  for  their  conde- 
scension :   he  had  wisely  brought  Belcour  with 


40 

him  to 'entertain  Mademoiselle,  while  he  enjoy- 
ed an  uninterrupted  conversation  with  Charlotte. 

Belcour  was  a  man  whose  character  might  be 
comprised  in  a  few  words  ;  and  as  he  will  make 
some  figure  in  the  ensuing  pages,  I  shall  here 
describe  him.  He  possessed  a  genteel  fortune, 
and  had  a  liberal  education ;  dissipated,  thought- 
less, and  capricious,  he  paid  little  regard  to  mo- 
ral duties,  and  less  to  religious  ones  ;  eager  in 
the  pursuit  of  pleasure,  he  minded  not  the  mise- 
ries he  inflicted  on  others,  provided  his  own 
wishes,  however  extravagant,  were  gratified. 
"Self,  darling  self,  was  the  idol  be  worshipped, 
and  to  that  he  would  have  sacrificed  the  inter- 
est and  happiness  of  all  mankind.  Such  was  the 
friend  of  Montraville ;  will  not  the  reader  be 
ready  to  imagine,  that  the  man  who  could  regard 
such  a  character,  must  be  actuated  by  the  same 
feelings,  follow  the  same  pursuits,  and  be  equal- 
ly unworthy  with  the  person  to  whom  he  thus 
'gave  his  confidence  ? 

But  Montraville  was  a  different  character; 
generous  in  his  disposition,  liberal  in  his  opi- 
nions, and  good  natured  almost  to  a  fault ;  yet 
eager  and  impetuous  in  the  pursuit  of  a  favour- 
ite object,  he  staid  not  to  reflect  on  the  conse- 
quence which  might  follow  the  attainment  of  his 
wishes ;  with  a  mind  ever  open  to  conviction, 
bad  he  been  so  fortunate  as  to  possess  a  friend 
who  would  have  pointed  out  the  cruelty  of  en- 
deavouring to  gain  the  heart  of  an  innocent,  art- 
less girl,  when  he  knew  it  was  utterly  impossi- 
ble for  him  to  marry  her,  and  when  the  gratifi- 
cation of  his  passion  would  be  unavoidable  in- 


41 

ferny  and  misery  to  her,  and  a  cause  of  never- 
ceasing  remorse  to  himself:  had  these  dreadful 
consequences  been  placed  before  him  in  a  pro- 
per light,  the  humanity  of  his  nature  would  have 
urged  him  to  give  up  the  pursuit :  but  Belcour 
was  not  this  friend ;  he  rather  encouraged  the 
growing  passion  of  Montraville;  and  being 
pleased  with  the  vivacity  of  Mademoiselle,  re- 
solved to  leave  no  argument  untried,  which  he 
thought  might  prevail  on  her  to  be  the  compa- 
nion of  their  intended  voyage ;  and  he  made  no 
doubt  but  her  example,  added  to  the  rhetoric  of 
Montraville,  would  persuade  Charlotte  to  go 
with  them. 

Charlotte  had,  when  she  went  out  to  meet 
Montraville,  flattered  herself  that  her  resolution 
was  not  to  be  shaken,  and  that,  conscious  of  the 
impropriety  of  her  conduct,  in  having  a  clandes- 
tine intercourse  with  a  stranger,  she  would  ne- 
ver repeat  the  indiscretion. 

But  alas  !  poor  Charlotte,  she  knew  not  the 
deceitfulness  of  her  own  heart,  or  she  would  have 
avoided  the  trial  of  her  stability. 

Montraville  was  tender,  eloquent,  ardent,  and 
yet  respectful.  'Shall  I  not  see  you  once  more,' 
said  he,  '  before  I  leave  England  ?  will  you  not 
bless  me  by  an  assurance,  that  when  we  are  di- 
vided by  a  vast  expanse  of  sea,  I  shall  not  be 
forgotten  ? 

Charlotte  sighed. 

4  Why  that  sigh,  my  dear  Charlotte  ?  could  I 
flatter  myself  that  a  fear  for  my  safety,  or  a  wish 
for  my  welfare  occasioned  it,  how  happy  would 
it  make  me.' 

D2 


42 

*  I  shall  ever  wish  you  well  Montravrlle,'  said 
she ;  'but  we  must  meet  no  more.' 

1  Oh  say  not  so,  my  lovely  girl :  reflect,  that 
when  I  leave  my  native  land,  perhaps  a  few  short 
week*  may  terminate  my  existence ;  the  perils  of 
the  ocean — the  dangers  of  war — ' 

*  I  can  hear  no  more,'  said  Charlotte,  in  a  tre- 
snulous  voice, •  I  must  leave  you.* 

*  Say  you  will  see  me  once  again.' 

*  I  dare  not,*  said  she. 

*  Only  for  one  half  hour  to-morrow  evening ; 
3t  is  my  last  request,  I  shall  never  trouble  you 
again,  Charlotte.' 

4 1  know  riot  what  to  say,'  cried  Charlotte, 
struggling  to  draw  her  hands  from  him  ;  '  let 
me  leave  you  now.' 

*  And  will  you  come  to-morrow  V.  said  Mon- 
traville. 

HPerhaps  I  may,'  said  she. 

*  Adieu  then,  I  will  live  upon  that  hope  till  we 
meet  again.' 

He  kissed  her  hand,  .  She  sighed  an  adieu, 
and  catching  hold  of  Mademoiselle's  arm,  hasti- 
ly entered  the  garden  gate. 


CHAP.  X. 

When  we  have  excited  curiosity,  it  is  but  an  act 
of  good  nature  to  gratify  it. 

MONTRAVILLE  was  the  youngest  son 
cf  a  gentleman  of  fortune,  whose  family  being 
numerous,  he  was  obliged  to  bring  up  bis  sons 


43 

to  genteel  professions,  by  the  exercise  of  which 
they  might  hope  to  raise  themselves  into  notice. 

fc  My  daughters/  said  he,  4  have  been  educa- 
ted like  gentlewomen ;  and  should  I  die  before 
they  are  settled,  they  must  have  some  provision 
made,  to  place  them  above  the  snares  and  temp- 
tations which  vice  ever  holds  out  to  the  elegant, 
accomplished  female,  when  oppressed  by  the 
frowns  of  poverty  and  the  sting  of  dependence ; 
my  boys,  with  only  moderate  incomes,  when 
placed  in  the  church,  at  the  bar,  or  in  the  field, 
may  exert  their  talents,  make  themselves  friends, 
and  raise  their  fortunes  on  the  basis  of  merit.' 

When  Montraville  chose  the  profession  of 
arms,  his  father  presented  him  with  a  commis^ 
sion,  and  made  him  a  handsome  provision  for 
his  private  purse.  '  Now,  my  boy,  go,  seek  glo^ 
ry  in  the  field  of  battle.  You  have  received 
from  me  all  I  shall  ever  have  it  in  my  power  to 
bestow;  it  is  certain  I  have  interest  to  gain  you 
promotion,  but  be  assured  that  interest  shall  ne- 
ver be  exerted,  unless  by  your  future  conduct 
you  deserve  it.  Remember,  therefore,  your  suc- 
cess in  life  depends  entirely  on  yourself.  There 
is  one  thing  I  think  it  my  duty  to  caution  you 
against;  the  precipitancy  with  which  young  men 
frequently  rush  into  matrimonial  engagements, 
and  by  their  thoughtlessness  draw  many  a  de- 
serving woman  into  scenes  of  poverty  and  dis- 
tress. A  soldier  has  no  business  to  think  of  a 
wife  till  his  rank  is  such  as  to  place  him  above 
the  fear  of  bringing  into  the  world  a  train  of 
helpless  innocents,  heirs  only  to  penury  and  af- 
fliction.    If,  indeed,  a  woman  whose  fortune  is 


44 

sufficient  to  preserve  you  in  that  state  of  inde- 
pendence I  would  teach  you  to  prize,  should  ge- 
nerously bestow  herself  on  a  young  soldier, 
whose  chief  hope  of  future  prosperity  depended 
on  his  success  in  the  field— if  such  a  woman 
should  offer — every  barrier  is  removed,  and  I 
should  rejoice  in  an  union  which  would  promise 
so  much  felicity.  But  mark  me,  boy,  if,  on  the 
contrary,  you  rush  into  a  precipitate  union  with 
a  girl  of  little  or  no  fortune,  take  the  poor  crea- 
ture from  a  comfortable  home  and  kind  friends, 
and  plunge  her  into  all  the  evils  a  narrow  income 
and  increasing  family  can  inflict,  I  will  leave  you 
to  enjoy  the  blessed  fruits  of  your  rashness ;  for, 
by  all  that  is  sacred,  neither  my  interest  nor  for- 
tune shall  ever  be  exerted  in  your  favour.  I  am 
serious,'  continued  he,  'therefore  imprint  this 
consideration  on  your  memory,  and  let  it  influ- 
ence your  future  conduct.  Your  happiness  will 
always  be  dear  to  me;  and  I  wish  to  wav~>  you 
of  a  rock  on  which  the  peace  of  many  an  I  eat 
fellow  has  been  wrecked;  for,  believe  me  (he. 
difficulties  and  dangers  of  the  longest  winter 
campaign  are  much  easier  to  be  borne,  than  the 
pangs  that  would  seize  your  heart,  when  you  be- 
hold the  woman  of  your  choice,  the  children  of 
your  affection,  involved  in  penury  and  distress, 
and  reflect  that  your  own  folly  and  precipitancy 
had  been  the  prime  cause  of  their  sufferings.' 

As  this  conversation  passed  but  a  few  hours 
before  Montraville  took  leave  of  his  father,  it 
was  deeply  impressed  on  his  mind :  when,  there- 
fore, Belcour  came  with  him  to  the  place  of  as- 
signation with  Charlotte,  he  directed  him  to  in- 


45 

quire  of  the  French  woman  what  were  Miss 
Temple's  expectations  with  regard  to  fortune. 

Mademoiselle  informed  him,  that  though 
Charlotte's  father  possessed  a  genteel  indepen- 
dence, it  was  by  no  means  probable  that  he  could 
give  his  daughter  more  than  a  thousand  pounds ; 
and  in  case  she  did  not  marry  to  his  liking,  it 
was  possible  he  might  not  give  her  a  single  sous; 
nor  did  it  appear  the  least  likely,  that  Mr.  Tem- 
ple would  agree  to  her  union  with  a  young  man 
on  the  point  of  embarking  for  the  seat  of  war. 

Montraville,  therefore,  concluded  it  was  im- 
possible he  should  ever  marry  Charlotte  Tem- 
ple ,•  and  what  end  he  proposed  to  himself  by 
continuing  the  acquaintance  he  had  commenced 
with  her,  he  djd  not  at  that  moment  give  him* 
self  time  to  inquire. 


CHAP.  XI. 

Conflict  of  love  and  duty. 

ALMOST  a  week  was  now  gone,  and  Char- 
lotte continued  every  evening  to  meet  Montra- 
ville, and  in  her  heart  every  meeting  was  resolved 
to  be  the  last;  but  alas!  when  Montraville,  at  part- 
ing, would  earnestly  entreat  one  more  interview, 
that  treacherous  heart  betrayed  her ;  and,  for- 
getful of  its  resolution,  pleaded  the  cause  of  the 
enemy  so  powerfully,  that  Charlotte  was  unable 
to  resist.  Another,  and  another  meeting  suc- 
ceeded; and  so  well  did  Montraville  improve 
each  opportunity,  that  the  heedless  girl  at  length 


46 

confessed  that  no  idea  could  be  so  painful  to  her 
as  that  of  never  seeing  him  again. 

4  Then  we  will  never  be  parted,'  said  he. 

4  Ah,  Montraville,'  replied  Charlotte,  forcing 
a  smile,  4  how  can  it  be  avoided  ?  My  parents 
would  never  consent  to  our  union ;  and  even 
could  they  be  brought  to  approve  of  it,  how  could 
I  bear  to  be  separated  from  my  kind,  my  belov- 
ed mother  ?' 

1  Then  you  love  your  parents  more  than  you 
do  me,  Charlotte  ?' 

'I  hope  I  do,'  said  she,  blushing  and  looking 
down.  *  I  hope  my  affection  for  them  will  ever 
keep  me  from  infringing  the  laws  of  filial  duty.' 

4  Well,  Charlotte,'  said  Montraville  gravely, 
and  letting  go  her  hand,  4  since  this  is  the  case, 
I  find  I  have  deceived  myself  with  fallacious 
hopes.  I  had  flattered  my  fond  heart  that  I  was 
dearer  to  Charlotte  than  any  thing  in  the  world 
beside.  I  thought  that  you  would,  for  my  sake, 
have  braved  the  dangers  of  the  ocean,  thafcjrou 
would,  by  your  affection  and  smiles,  have  soften- 
ed the  hardships  of  war,  and,  had  it  been  my 
fate  to  fall,  that  your  tenderness  would  cheer  the 
hour  of  death,  and  smooth  my  passage  to  ano- 
ther world.  But,  farewell,  Charlotte !  I  sep  you 
never  loved  me.  I  shall  now  welcome  the  friend- 
ly ball  that  deprives  me  of  the  sense  of  my  mi- 
sery.' 

4  O  stay,  unkind  Montraville,'  cried  she,  catch- 
ing hold  of  his  arm  as  he  pretended  to  leave  her, 
4  stay,  and  to  calm  your  fears,  I  will  here  protest, 
that  were  it  not  for  the  fear  of  giving  pain  to  the 
best  of  parents,  and  returning  their  kindness  with 


47 

ingratitude,  I  would  follow  you  through  every 
danger,  and,  in  studying  to  promote  your  hap- 
piness, ensure  my  own.  But  I  cannot  break  my 
mother's  heart,  Montraville  ;  I  must  not  bring 
the  grey  hairs  of  my  doating  grand-father  with 
sorrow  to  the  grave,  or  make  my  beloved  father, 
perhaps,  curse  the  hour  that  gave  me  birth.'  She 
covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  burst  into 
tears. 

*  All  these  distressing  scenes,  my  dear  Char- 
lotte,' cried  Montraville,  '  are  merely  the  chime- 
ras of  a  disturbed  fancy.  Your  parents  might, 
perhaps,  grieve  at  first,  but  when  they  heard 
from  your  own  hand  that  you  was  with  a  man  of 
honour,  and  that  it  was  to  ensure  your  felicity 
by  a  union  with  him,  to  which  you  feared  they 
would  never  have  given  their  assent,  that  you 
left  their  protection,  they  will,  be  assured,  for- 
give an  error  which  love  alone  occasioned,  and 
when  we  return  from  America,  receive  you  with 
open  arms  and  tears  of  joy.' 

Belcour  and  Mademoiselle  heard  this  last 
speech  and  conceiving  it  a  proper  time  to  throw 
in  their  advice  and  persuasions,  approached  Char- 
lotte, and  so  well  seconded  the  entreaties  of  Mon- 
traville, that,  finding  Mademoiselle  intended  go- 
ing with  Belcour,  and  feeling  her  own  treacher- 
ous heart  too  much  inclined  to  accompany  them, 
the  hapless  Charlotte,  in  an  evil  hour,  consented 
that  the  next  evening  they  should  bring  a  chaise 
to  the  end  of  the  town,  and  that  she  would  leave 
her  friends,  and  throw  herself  entirely  on  the 
protection  of  Montraville.  *  But  should  you/ 
said  she,  looking  earnestly  at  him,  her  eyes  full 


48 

of  tears,  *  should  you,  forgetful  of  your  promises, 
and  repenting  of  the  engagements  you  here  vo- 
luntarily enter  into,  forsake  and  leave  me  on  a 
foreign  shore ' 

'  Judge  not  so  meanly  of  me,'  said  he.  *  The 
moment  we  reach  the  place  of  our  destination, 
Hymen  shall  sanctify  our  love ;  and  when  I  shall 
forget  your  goodness,  may  heaven  forget  me.' 

4  Ah,'  said  Charlotte,  leaning  on  Mademoi- 
selle's arm,  as  they  walked  up  the  garden  toge- 
ther, 4 1  have  forgot  all  that  I  ought  to  have  re- 
membered, in  consenting  to  this  intended  elope- 
ment.' 

'  You  are  a  strange  girl,'  said  Mademoiselle; 
c  you  never  know  your  own  mind  two  minutes  at 
a  time.  Just  now  you  declared  Montraville's 
happiness  was  what  you  prized  most  in  the 
world ;  and  now,  I  suppose,  you  repent  having 
ensured  that  happiness  by  agreeing  to  accompa- 
ny him  abroad.' 

*  Indeed  I  do  repent,' replied  Charlotte, *  from 
my  soul ;  but  while  discretion  points  out  the  im- 
propriety of  my  conduct,  inclination  urges  me  on 
to  ruin.' 

4  Ruin !  fiddlestick  !'  said  Mademoiselle ;  *  am 
not  I  going  with  you  ?  and  do  I  feel  any  of  these 
qualms  ?' 

4  You  3o  not  renounce  a  tender  father  and  mo- 
ther,' said  Charlotte. 

'But  I  hazard  my  dear  reputation,'  replied 
Mademoiselle,  bridling. 

*  True,'  replied  Charlotte,  *  but  you  do  not  feel 
what  I  do.'  She  then  bade  her  good  night ;  but 
sleep  was  a  stranger  to  her  eyes,  and  the  tear  of 
-^cuish  watered  her  pillow. 


49 


CHAP.  XII. 

Nature's  last,  best  gift ; 
Creature  in  whom  excell'd;  whatever  could 
To  sight  or  thought  be  named ! 
Holy,  divine,  good,  amiable  and  sweet! 
How  thou  art  fallen ! 

WHEN  Charlotte  left  her  restless  bed,  her 
languid  eye  and  pale  cheek  discovered  to  Ma- 
dame Du  Pont  the  little  repose  she  had  tasted. 
4  Ny  dear  child,'  said  the  affectionate  govern- 
ess, *  what  is  the  cause  of  the  languor  so  appa- 
rent in  your  frame  ?  are  you  not  well  ?' 

4  Yes,  my  dear  Madam,  very  well,'  replied 
Charlotte,  attempting  to  smile ;  '  but  I  know  not 
how  it  was,  I  could  not  sleep  last  night,  and-  my 
spirits  are  depressed  this  morning.' 

'  Come,  cheer  up  my  love,'  said  the  govern- 
ess, 4 1  believe  I  have  brought  a  cordial  to  revive 
them.  I  have  just  received  a  letter  from  your 
good  mama,  and  here  is  one  for  yourself.' 

Charlotte  hastily  took  the  letter ;  it  contained 
these  words : 

«  As  to-morrow  is  the  anniversary  of  the  happy 
day  that  gave  my  beloved  girl  to  the  anxious  wishes 
of  a  maternal  heart,  I  have  requested  your  governess 
to  let  you  come  home  and  spend  it  with  us;  and  as  I 
know  you  to  be  a  good  affectionate  child,  and  make 
it  your  study  to  improve  in  those  branches  of  edu- 
cation which  you  know  will  give  most  pleasure  to 
your  delighted  parents,  as  a  reward  for  your  dili- 
gence ana  attention,  I  have  prepared  an  agreeable 
surprise  for  your  reception.  Your  grand-father,  ea- 
ger to  embrace  the  darling  of  his  aged  heart,  will 


so 

Come  in  the  chaise  for  you ;  so  hold  yourself  in  rea- 
diness to  attend  him  by  nine  o'clock.  Your  dear 
father  joins  in  every  tender  wish  for  your  health  and 
future  felicity,  which  warms  the  heart  of  my  Char- 
lotte's affectionate  mother.  L.  TEMPLE." 

'  Gracious  heaven  !'  cried  Charlotte,  forget- 
ting where  she  was,  and  raising  her  streaming 
eyes,  as  in  earnest  supplication. 

Madame  Du  Pont  was  surprised.  'Why  these 
tears  my  love  ?'  said  she.  *  Why  this  seeming 
agitation  ?  I  thought  the  letter  would  have  re- 
joiced, instead  of  distressing  you.' 

4  It  does  rejoice  me,'  replied  Charlotte,  endea- 
vouring at  composure,  '  but  I  was  praying  for 
merit  to  deserve  the  unremitted  attentions  of  the 
best  of  parents.' 

*  You  do  right,'  said  Madame  Du  Pont, *  to 
ask  the  assistance  of  heaven  that  you  may  con- 
tinue to  deserve  their  love.  Continue,  my  dear 
Charlotte,  in  the  course  you  have  ever  pursued, 
and  you  will  ensure  at  once  their  happiness  and 
your  own.' 

4  Oh !'  cried  Charlotte,  as  her  governess  left 
her, *  I  have  forfeited  both  forever  !  Yet,  let  me 
reflect ;  the  irrevocable  step  is  not  yet  taken ;  it 
is  not  too  late  to  recede  from  the  brink  of  a  pre- 
cipice, from  which  I  can  only  behold  the  dark 
abyss  of  ruin,  shame,  and  remorse  !' 

She  rose  from  her  seat  and  flew  to  the  apart- 
ment of  La  Rue.  *  Oh  Mademoiselle !'  said  she, 
*  I  am  snatched  by  a  miracle  from  destruction ! 
This  letter  has  saved  me ;  it  has  opened  my  eyes 
to  the  folly  I  was  so  near  committing.  I  wilt 
not  go,  Mademoiselle ;    I  will  not  wound  the 


$1 

hearts  of  those  dear  parents  who  make  my  hap- 
piness the  whole  study  of  their  lives.' 

*■  Well,'  said  Mademoiselle,  'do  as  you  please, 
Miss  ;  but  pray  understand  that  my  resolution 
is  taken,  and  it  is  not  in  your  power  to  alter  it. 
I  shall  meet  the  gentlemen  at  the  appointed  hour, 
and  shall  not  be  surprised  at  any  outrage  which 
Montraville  may  commit,  when  he  finds  himself 
disappointed.  Indeed,  I  should  not  be  astonish- 
ed was  he  to  come  immediately  here,  and  re- 
proach you  for  your  instability  in  the  hearing  of 
the  whole  school ;  and  what  will  be  the  conse- 
quence ?  you  will  bear  the  odium  of  having  form- 
ed the  resolution  of  eloping,  and  every  girl  of 
spirit  will  laugh  at  your  want  of  fortitude  to  put 
into  execution,  while  prudes  and  fools  will  load 
you  with  reproach  and  contempt.  You  will  have 
lost  the  confidence  of  your  parents,  incurred  their 
anger,  and  the  scoffs  of  the  world.  And  what 
fruit  do  you  expect  to  reap  from  this  piece  of 
heroism  ?  (for  such,  no  doubt,  you  think  it  is) 
you  will  have  the  pleasure  to  reflect,  that  you 
have  deceived  the  man  who  adores  you,  and 
whom,  in  your  heart,  you  prefer  to  all  other  men, 
and  that  you  are  separated  from  him  forever.' 

This  eloquent  harangue  was  given  with  such 
volubility,  that  Charlotte  could  not  find  an  op- 
portunity to  interrupt  her,  or  to  offer  a  single 
word  till  the  whole  was  finished,  and  then  found 
her  ideas  so  confused  that  she  knew  not  what  to ' 
say. 

At  length  she  determined  that  she  would  go 
with  Mademoiselle  to  the  place  of  assignation, 
convince  Montraville  of  the  necessity  of  adher- 


52 

ing  to  the  resolution  of  remaining  behind,  assure 
him  of  her  affection,  and  bid  him  adieu. 

Charlotte  formed  this  plan  in  her  mind,  and 
exulted  in  the  certainty  of  its  success.  4  How 
shall  I  rejoice,'  said  she,  4  in  this  triumph  of  rea- 
son over  inclination,  and  when  in  the  arms  of 
my  affectionate  parents,  lift  up  my  soul  in  gra- 
titude to  heaven  as  I  look  back  on  the  dangers  I 
j     have  escaped !' 

The  hour  of  assignation  arrived :  Mademoi* 
selle  put  what  money  and  valuables  she  possess- 
ed in  her  pocket,  and  advised  Charlotte  to  do 
the  same ;  but  she  refused ;  '  my  resolution  is 
fixed,'  said  she ;  4  I  will  sacrifice  love  to  duty.' 

Mademoiselle  smiled  internally;    and  they 
I  proceeded  softly  down  the  back  stairs,  and  out  of 
the  garden  gate,     Montraville  and  Belcour  were 
ready  to  receive  them. 

4  Now,'  said  Montraville,  taking  Charlotte  in 
his  arms,  *  you  are  mine  forever.' 

4  No,'  said  she,  withdrawing  from  his  embrace, 
c  I  am  come  to  take  an  everlasting  farewell.' 

It  would  be  useless  to  repeat  the  conversation 
that  here  ensued;  suffice  it  to  say  that  Montra- 
ville used  every  argument  that  had  formerly  been 
successful.  Charlotte's  resolution  began  to  wa- 
ver, and  he  drew  her  almost  imperceptibly  to- 
wards the  chaise. 

4 1  cannot  go,'  said  she ;  c  cease  dear  Montra- 
ville to  persuade.  I  must  not ;  religion,  duty, 
forbid.' 

4  Cruel  Charlotte,'  said  he, 4  if  you  disappoint 
my  ardent  hopes,  by  all  that  is  sacred,  this  hand 
shall  put  a  period  to  my  existence.  I  cannot,  will 
not  live  without  you.' 


57 

of  my  aged  heart  is  lost.  0  would  to  heaven  I 
had  died  but  yesterday.' 

A  violent  gush  of  grief  in  some  measure  reliev- 
ed him,  and  after  several  vain  attempts,  he  at 
length  assumed  sufficient  composure  to  read  the 
note. 

'  And  how  shall  I  return  to  my  children  V  said 
he ;  *■  how  approach  that  mansion,  so  late  the  ha- 
bitation of  peace  ?  Alas  !  my  dear  Lucy,  how 
will  you  support  these  heart-rending  tidings  ?  or 
how  shall  I  be  enabled  to  console  you,  who  need 
so  much  consolation  myself?' 

The  old  man  returned  to  the  chaise,  but  the 
light  step  and  cheerful  countenance  were  no 
more :  sorrow  filled  his  heart  and  guided  his 
motions.  He  seated  himself  in  the  chaise ;  his 
venerable  head  reclined  upon  his  bosom,  his 
hands  were  folded,  his  eye  fixed  on  vacancy,  and 
the  large  drops  of  sorrow  rolled  silently  down 
his  cheeks.  There  was  a  mixture  of  anguish 
and  resignation  depicted  in  his  countenance,  as 
if  he  would  say,  henceforth  who  shall  dare  to 
boast  his  happiness,  or  even  in  idea  contemplate 
his  treasure,  lest,  in  the  very  moment  his  heart  is 
exulting  in  its  own  felicity,  the  object  which  con- 
stitutes that  felicity  should  be  torn  from  him. 


CHAP.  XIV. 

Maternal  sorrow. 

SLQW  and  heavy  passed  the  time  while 
the  carriage  was  conveying  Mr.  Eldridge  home  ', 
and  yet  when  he  arrived  in  sight  of  the  house, 


SB 

he  wished  a  longer  reprieve  from  the  dreadful 
task  of  informing  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Temple  of  their 
daughter's  elopement. 

It  is  easy  to  judge  the  anxiety  of  these  affec- 
tionate parents,  when  they  found  the  return  of 
their  father  delayed  so  much  beyond  the  expect- 
ed time.  They  were  now  met  in  the  dining  par- 
lour, and  several  of  the  young  people  who  had 
been  invited  were  already  arrived.  Each  dif- 
ferent part  of  the  company  was  employed  in  the 
same  manner,  looking  out  at  the  windows  which 
faced  the  road.  At  length  the  long  expected 
chaise  appeared.  Mrs.  Temple  ran  out  to  re- 
ceive and  welcome  her  darling ;  her  young  com- 
panions flocked  round  the  door,  each  one  eager 
to  give  her  joy  on  the  return  of  her  birthday. 
The  door  of  the  chaise  was  opened ;  Charlotte 
was  not  there.  '  Where  is  my  child  ?'  cried  Mr* 
Temple,  in  breathless  agitation* 

Mr.  Eldridge  could  not  answer ;  he  took  hold 
of  his  daughter's  hand  and  led  her  into  the  house  ; 
and  sinking  into  the  first  chair  he  came  to,  burst 
into  tears,  and  sobbed  aloud. 

•  She  is  dead,'  cried  Mrs.  Temple.  '  Oh,  my 
dear  Charlotte  V  and  clasping  her  hands  in  an 
agony  of  distress,  fell  into  strong  hysterics. 

Mr.  Temple,  who  had  stood  speechless  with 
surprise  and  fear,  now  ventured  to  inquire  if  in- 
deed his  Charlotte  was  no  more.  Mr.  Eldridge 
led  him  into  another  apartment,  and  putting  the 
fatal  note  into  his  hand,  cried — c  Bear  it  like  a 
christian,'  and  turned  from  him,  endeavouring 
to  suppress  his  own  too  visible  emotions. 

It  would  be  vain  to  attempt  describing  what 


59 

Mr.  Temple  felt  whilst  he  hastily  ran  over  the 
dreadful  lines ;  when  he  had  finished,  the  paper 
dropped  from  his  unnerved  hand.  '  Gracious 
heaven  !'  said  he, '  could  Charlotte  act  thus  ??— * 
Neither  tear  nor  sigh  escaped  him;  and  he  sat 
the  image  of  mute  sorrow,  till  roused  from  his 
stupor  by  the  repeated  shrieks. of  Mrs.  Temple, 
He  rose  hastily,  and  rushing  into  the  apartment 
where  she  was,  folded  his  arms  about  her,  and 
saying,  c  Let  us  be  patient,  my  dear  Lucy,'  na- 
ture relieved  his  almost  bursting  heart  by  a 
friendly  gush  of  tears. 

Should  any  one,  presuming  on  his  own  philo- 
sophic temper,  look  with  an  eye  of  contempt  on 
the  man  who  could  indulge  a  woman's  weakness, 
let  him  remember  that  man  was  a  father,  and  he 
will  then  pity  the  misery  which  wrung  those 
drops  from  a  noble,  generous  heart. 

Mrs.  Temple  beginning  to  be  a  little  more 
composed,  but  still  imagining  her  child  was  dead, 
her  husband  gentlyftdok  her  hand,  cried,  4  You 
^re  mistaken,  my  love ;  Charlotte  is  not  dead,' 

4  Then  she  is  very  ill,  else  why  did  she  not 
come  ?  But  I  will  go  to  her ;  the  chaise  is  still  at 
the  door ;  let  me  go  instantly  to  the  dear  girl.  If 
I  was  ill  she  would  fly  to  attend  me,  to  alleviate 
my  sufferings,  and  cheer  me  with  her  love.' 

'  Be  calm,  my  dearest  Lucy,  and  I  will  tell  you 
all,'  said  Mr.  Temple.  l  You  must  not  go,  in* 
deed  you  must  not ;  it  will  be  of  no  use.' 
ff^4  Temple,'  said  she  assuming  a  look  qf  firm- 
ness and  composure,  *  tell  me  the  truth,  I  beseech 
you.  I  cannot  bear  this  dreadful  suspense.  What 
misfortune  has  befallen  my  child  ?  iLet  me  know 


60 

the  worst,  and  I  will  endeavour  to  bear  it  as  I 
ought.' 

'  Lucy,'  replied  Mr.  Temple,  c  imagine  your 
daughter  alive,  and  in  no  danger  of  death ;  what 
misfortune  would  you  then  dread  ?* 

*  There  is  one  misfortune  which  is  worse  than 
death.  But  I  know  my  child  too  well  to  suspect — ' 

*  Be  not  too  confident,  Lucy.5 

1  Oh  heavens  !'  said  she,  '  what  horrid  images 
do  you  start ;  is  it  possible  she  should  forget — V 

4  She  has  forgotten  us  all,  my  love ;  she  has 
preferred  the  love  of  a  stranger  to  the  affection- 
ate  protection  of  her  friends.' 

4  Not  eloped  !'  said  she  eagerly. 

Mr.  Temple  was  silent. 

4  You  cannot  contradict  it,'  said  she ;  *  I  see 
my 'fate  in  those  tearful  eyes.  Oh  Charlotte! 
Charlotte !  how  ill  have  you  requited  our  ten- 
derness] But,  Father  of  Mercies,'  continued 
she,  sinking  on  her  knees,  and  raising  her  stream- 
ing eyes  and  clasped  hands  to  heaven,  *  this  once 
vouchsafe  to  hear  a  fond,  a  distracted  mother's 
prayer.  Oh  let  thy  bounteous  Providence  watch 
over  and  protect  the  dear  thoughtless  girl,  save 
her  from  the  miseries  which  1  fear  will  be  her 
portion;  and  oh!  of  thine  infinite  mercy,  make 
her  not  a  mother,  lest  she  should  one  day  feel 
what  I  now  suffer.' 

The  last  words  faultered  on  her  tongue,  and 
she  fell  fainting  into  the  arms  of  her  husband, 
who  had  involuntarily  dropped  on  his  knees  by 
her  side. 

A  mother's  anguish,  when  disappointed  in  her 
tenderest  hopes,  none  but  a  mother  can  conceive^ 


61 

Yet,  my  young  readers,  I  would  have  you  read 
this  scene  with  attention,  and  reflect  that  you 
may  yourselves  one  day  be  mothers.  Oh !  my 
friends  as  you  value  your  eternal  happiness, 
wound  not,  by  thoughtless  ingratitude,  the  peace 
of  the  mother  who  bore  you :  remember  the 
tenderness,  the  care,  the  unremitting  anxiety 
with  which  she  has  attended  to  all  your  wants 
and  wishes  from  earliest  infancy  to  the  present 
day ;  behold  the  mild  ray  of  affectionate  applause 
that  beams  from  her  eye  on  the  performance  of 
your  duty ;  listen  to  her  reproofs  with  silent  at- 
tention ;  they  proceed  from  a  heart  anxious  for 
your  future  felicity :  you  must  love  her ;  nature, 
all-powerful  nature,  has  planted  the  seeds  of  fili- 
al affection  in  your  bosoms.  ' 

Then  once  more  read  over  the  sorrows  of  poor 
Mrs.  Temple,  and  remember  the  mother  whom 
you  so  dearly  love  and  venerate  will  feel  the 
same,  when  you,  forgetful  of  the  respect  due  to 
your  maker  and  yourself,  forsake  the  paths  of 
virtue  for  those  of  vice  and  folly. 


CHAP.  XV. 

Embarkation* 

IT  was  with  the  utmost  difficulty  that  the 
United  efforts  of  Mademoiselle  and  Montraviile 
could  support  Charlotte's  spirits  daring  their 
short  ride  from  Chichester  to  Portsmouth,  where 
a  boat  waited  to  take  them  immediately  on  board 
the  ship  in  which  they  were  to  embark  for  Ame- 
rica 

**  r 


62 

As  soon  as  she  became  tolerably  composed, 
she  entreated  pen  and  ink  to  write  to  her  parents. 
This  she  did  in  the  most  affecting,  artless  man- 
ner, entreating  their  pardon  and  blessing,  and 
describing  the  dreadful  situation  of  her  mind, 
the  conflict  she  suffered  in  endeavouring  to  con- 
quer this  unfortunate  attachment,  and  concluded 
with  saying,  her  only  hope  of  future  comfort 
consisted  in  the  (perhaps  delusive)  jdea  she  in- 
dulged, of  being  once  more  folded  in  their  pro- 
tecting arms,  and  hearing  the  words  of  peace  and 
pardon  from  their  lips. 

The  tears  streamed  incessantly  while  she.  was 
writing,  and  she  was  frequently  obliged  to  lay 
down  her  pen ;  and  when  the  task  was  complet- 
ed, and  she  had  committed  the  letter  to  the  care 
of  Montraville  to  be  sent  to  the  post  office,  she 
became  more  calm,  and  indulging  the  dejightful 
hope  of  soon  receiving  an  answer  which  would 
seal  her  pardon,  she  in  some  measure  assumed 
her  usual  cheerfulness. 

But  Mqntraviile  knew  too  well  the  consequen- 
ces that  must  unavoidably  ensue,  should  this  let- 
ter reach  Mr.  Temple.  He,  therefore,  wisely  ' 
resolved  to  walk  on  the  deck,  tear  it  in  pieces, 
and  commit  the  fragments  to  the  care  of  Nep- 
tune, who  might,  or  might  not,  as  it  suited  his 
convenience,  convey  them  on  shore. 

AH  Charlotte's  hopes  and  wishes  were  now 
centered  in  one;  namely,  that  the  fleet  might  be 
detained  at  Spithead  till  she  could  receive  a  let- 
ter from  her  friends  ;  but  in  this  she  was  disap- 
pointed, for  the  second  morning  after  she  went 
on  board,  the  signal  was  made,  the  fleet  weigh- 


63 

ed  anchor,  and  in  a  few  hours  (the  wind  oein# 
favourable)  they  bid  adieu  to  the  white  cliffs  of 
Albion. 

In  the  mean  time,  every  inquiry  that  could  be 
thought  of,  was  made  by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Temple; 
for  many  days  did  they  indulge  the  fond  hope 
that  she  was  merely  gone  off  to  be  married,  and 
that  when  the  indissoluble  knot  was  once  tied, 
she  would  return  with  the  partner  she  had  chos- 
en, and  entreat  their  blessing  and  forgiveness. 

*  And  shall  we  not  forgive  her  V  said  Mr. 
Temple. 

*  Forgive  her !'  exclaimed  the  mother — l  Oh 
yes :  whatever  be  her  errors,  is  she  not  our  child  ? 
and  though  bowed  to  the  earth,  even  with  shame 
and  remorse,  is  it  not  our  duty  to  raise  the  poor 
penitent,  and  whisper  peace  and  comfort  to  her 
desponding  soul  ?  would  she  but  return,  with 
rapture  would  I  fold  her  to  my  heart,  and  bury 
every  remembrance  of  her  faults  in  the  dear  em- 
brace** 

But  still  day  after  day  passed  on$  and  Char* 
lotte  did  not  appear,  nor  were  any  tidings  to  be 
heard  of  her ;  yet  each  rising  morri  was  welcom- 
ed by  some  new  hope— the  evening  brought  with 
it  disappointment.  At  iength  hope  was  no  more  ; 
despair  usurped  her  place ;  and  the  mansion* 
which  was  once  the  mansion  of  peace,  became 
the  habitation  of  pale,  dejected  melancholy. 

The  cheerful  smile  that  was  wont  to  adorn 
the  face  of  Mrs.  Temple,  was  fled,  and  had  it, 
not  been  for  the  support  of  unaffected  piety,  and 
a  consciousness  of  having  ever  set  before  her 
child  the  fairest  example,  she  must  have  sunk 
Under  this  heavy  affliction* 


64 

€  Since,'  said  she, c  the  severest?  scrutiny  can- 
not charge  me  with  any  breach  of  duty  to  have 
deserved  this  severe  chastisement,  I  will  bow 
before  the  power  who  inflicts  it,  with  humble  re- 
signation to  his  will ;  nor  shall  the  duty  of  a 
wife  be  totally  absorbed  in  .the  feelings  of  a  mo- 
ther ;  I  will  endeavour  to  appear  more  cheerful 
and  by  appearing  in  some  measure  to  have  con- 
quered my  own  sorrow,  alleviate  the  sufferings 
of  my  husband,  and  rouse  him  from  that  torpor 
into  which  this  misfortune  has  plunged  him. 
My  father  too  demands  my  care  and  attention ; 
I  must  not,  by  a  selfish  indulgence  of  my  own 
grief,  forget  the  interest  those  two  dear  objects 
take  in  my  happiness  or  misery :  I  will  wear  a 
smile  on  my  face,  though  the  thorn  rankles  in 
my  heart ;  and  if,  by  so  doing,  I  in  the  smallest 
degree  contribute  to  restore  their  peace  of  mind, 
I  shall  be  amply  rewarded  for  the  pain  the  con- 
cealment of  my  own  feelings  may  occasion.'. 

Thus  argued  this  excellent  woman ;  and  in  the 
execution  of  so  laudable  a  resolution  we  shall 
leave  her,  to  follow  the  fortunes  of  the  hapless 
victim  of  imprudence  and  evil  counsellor** 


CHAP.  XVI. 

Necessary  digression* 

ON  board  of  the  ship  in  which  Charlotte 
and  Mademoiselle  were  embarked,  was  an  officer 
of  large  unincumbered  fortune  and  elevated  rank, 
and  whom  I  shall  call  Crayton. 


65 

He  was  one  of  those  men,  who,  having  tra- 
velled in  their  youth,  pretend  to  have  contract- 
ed a  peculiar  fondness  for  every  thing  foreign, 
and  to  hold  in  contempt  the  productions  of  their 
own  country  ;  and  this  affected  partiality  extend- 
ed even  to  the  women. 

With  him,  therefore,  the  blushing  modesty 
and  unaffected  simplicity  of  Charlotte  passed  un- 
noticed ;  but  the  forward  pertness  of  La  Rue, 
the  freedom  of  her  conversation,  the  elegance  of 
her  person,  mixed  with  a  certain  engaging  je  ne 
sais  quoi,  perfectly  enchanted  him. 

The  reader,  no  doubt,  has  already  developed 
the  character  of  La  Rue  ;  designing,  artful,  and 
selfish,  she  had  accepted  the  devoirs  of  Belcour, 
because  she  was  heartily  weary  of  the  retired 
life  she  had  led  at  the  school,  wished  to  be  re^ 
leased  from  what  she  deemed  slavery,  and  to  re- 
turn to  that  vortex  of  folly  and  dissipation  which 
had  once  plunged  her  into  the  deepest  misery ; 
but  her  plan,  she  flattered  herself,  was  now  bet- 
ter formed  ;  she  resolved  to  put  herself  under 
the  protection  of  no  man,  till  she  had  first  secur- 
ed a  settlement;  tfut  the  clandestine  manner  in 
which  she  left  Madame  Du  Pont's,  prevented 
fcer  putting  this  plan  into  execution,  though  Bel- 
cour solemnly  protested  he  would  make  her  a 
handsome  settlement  the  moment  jthey  arrived 
at  Portsmouth.  This  he  afterwards  contrived  to 
evade  by  a  pretended  hurry  of  business.  La 
Rue,  readily  conceiving  he  never  meant  to  fulfil 
his  promise,  determined  to  change  her  battery, 
and  attack  the  heart  of  Colonel  Crayton.  She 
soon  discovered  the  partiality  he  entertained  for 
F-2 


66 

her  nation ;  and  having  imposed  upon  him  a 
feigned  tale  of  distress,  representing  Belcour  as 
a  villain  who  had  seduced  her  from  her  friends 
under  the  promise  of  marriage,  and  afterwards 
betrayed  her ;  pretending  great  remorse  for  the 
errors  she  had  committed,  and  declaring,  what- 
ever her  affection  for  Belcour  might  have  been, 
it  was  now  entirely  extinguished,  and  she  wish- 
ed for  nothing  more  than  an  opportunity  to  leave 
a  course  of  life  which  her  soul  abhorred ;  but  she 
had  no  friends  to  apply  to,  they  had  renounced 
her,  and  guilt  and  misery  would  undoubtedly  be 
her  future  portion  through  life. 

Crayton  was  possessed  of  many  amiable  qua- 
lities, though  the  peculiar  trait  in  his  character, 
which  we  have  already  mentioned,  in  a  great 
measure  threw  a  shade  over  them.  He  was  be- 
loved for  his  humanity  and  benevolence  by  all 
who  knew  him ;  but  he  was  easy  and  unsuspici- 
ous himself,  and  became  a  dupe  to  the  artifice 
of  others. 

He  was,  when  very  young,  united  to  an  ami- 
able Parisian  lady,  and  perhaps  it  was  his  affec- 
tion for  her  that  laid  the  foundation  for  the  par- 
tiality he  ever  retained  for  the  whole  nation.  He 
had  by  her  one  daughter,  who  entered  into  the 
world  but  a  few  hours  before  her  mother  left  it. 
This  lady  was  universally  beloved  and  admired, 
being  endowed  with  all  the  virtues  of  her  mo- 
ther, without  the  weakness  of  the  father ;  she 
was  married  to  Major  Beauchamp,  and  was  at 
this  time  in  the  same  fleet  with  her  father,  at- 
tending her  husband  to  New-York. 

Crayton  was  melted  by  the  affected  contrition 


67 

and  distress  of  La  Rue ;  he  would  converse  with 
her  for  hours,  read  to  her,  play  cards  with  her, 
listen  to  all  her  complaints,  and  promise  to  pro- 
tect her  to  the  utmost  of  his  power.  La  Rue 
easily  saw  his  character ;  her  sole  aim  was  to 
awaken  a  passion  in  his  bosom  that  might  turn 
out  to  her  advantage,  and  in  this  aim  she  was 
but  too  successful;  for  before  the  voyage  was 
finished,  the  infatuated  Colonel  gave  her  from 
under  his  hand  a  promise  of  marriage  on  their 
arrival  at  New- York,  under  a  forfeiture  of  five 
thousand  pounds,. 

And  how  did  our  poor  Charlotte  pass  her 
time  during  a  tedious  and  tempestuous  passage  ? 
Naturally  delicate,  the  fatigue  and  sickness 
which  she  endured  rendered  her  so  weak  as  to 
be  almost  entirely  confined  to  her  bed ;  yet  the 
kindness  and  attention  of  Montraville  in  some 
measure  contributed  to  alleviate  her  sufferings, 
and  the  hope  of  hearing  from  her  friends  soon 
after  her  arrival,  kept  lip  her  spirits,  and  cheer- 
cdrmany  a  gloomy  hour. 
^5ut  during  the  voyage,  a  great  revolution  took 
place,  not  only  in  the  fortune  of  La  Rue,  but  in 
the  bosom  of  Belcour.  Whilst  in  the  pursuit  of 
his  amour  with  Mademoiselle,  he  had  attended 
little  to  the  interesting  charms  of  Charlotte  ;  but 
when  cloyed  by  possession,  and  disgusted  with 
the  art  and  dissimulation  of  one,  he  beheld  the 
simplicity  and  gentleness  of  the  other,  the 
contrast  became  too  striking  not  to  fill  him 
at  once  with  surprise  and  admiration.  He  fre- 
quently conversed  with  Charlotte;  he  found 
her  sensible,  well  informed,  but  diffident  and  un- 


68 

assuming.  The  languor  which  the  fatigue  of 
her  body  and  perturbation  of  her  mind  spread 
over  her  delicate  features,  served  only,  in  his 
opinion,  to  render  her  more  lovely ;  he  knew  that 
IMontraville  did  not  design  to  marry  her,  and  he 
formed  the  resolution  to  endeavour  to  gain  her 
himself,  whenever  Montraville  should  leave  her. 
Let  not  the  reader  imagine  Belcour's  designs 
were  honourable.  Alas !  when  once  a  woman  has 
forgot  the  respect  due  to  herself,  by  yielding  to 
the  solicitations  of  illicit  love,  they  lose  all  their 
consequence,  even  in  the  eyes  of  the  man  whose 
art  has  betrayed  them,  and  for  whose  sake  they 
liave  sacrificed  every  valuable  consideration. 

The  heedless  Fair,  who  stoops  to  guilty  joys, 
A  man  may  pity— but  he  must  despise. 

Nay,  every  libertine  will  think  he  has  a  right 
to  insult  her  with  his  licentious  passion ;  and 
should  the  unhappy  creature  shrink  from  the  in- 
solent overture,  he  will  sneeringly  taunt  her  with 
pretence  of  modesty. 


CHAP.  XVII. 

A  wedding, 

ON  the  day  before  their  arrival  at  New- 
York,  after  dinner,  Crayton  arose  from  his  seat, 
and  placing  himself  by  Mademoiselle,  thus  ad- 
dressed the  company : 

*  As  we  are  now  nearly  arrived  at  our  destin- 
ed port,  I  think  it  but  my  duty  to  inform  you, 
tny  friends,  that  this  lady  (taking  her  hand)  has 


69 

placed  herself  under  my  protection.  I  have  seen 
and  severely  felt  the  anguish  of  her  heart,  and 
through  every  shade,  which  cruelty  or  malice 
may  throw  over  her,  can  discover  the  most  ami- 
able qualities.  I  thought  it  but  necessary  to  men- 
tion my  esteem  for  her  before  our  disembarka- 
tion, as  it  is  my  fixed  resolution,  the  morning 
after  we  land,  to  give  her  an  undoubted  title  to 
my  favour  and  protection,  by  honourably  unit- 
ing my  fate  to  hers.  I  would  wish  every  gen- 
tleman here,  therefore,  to  remember  that  her 
honour,  henceforth,  is  mine ;  and/  continued  he, 
looking  at  Belcour,  *  should  any  man  presume  to 
speak  in  the  least  disrespectful  of  her,  I  shall 
not  hesitate  to  pronounce  him  a  scoundrel.' 

Belcour  cast  at  him  a  smile  of  contempt,  and 
bowing  profoundly  low,  wished  Mademoiselle 
much  joy  in  the  proposed  union,  and  assuring 
the  Colonel  that  he  need  not  be  in  the  least  ap- 
prehensive of  any  one  throwing  the  least  odium 
on  the  character  of  his  lady,  shook  him  by  the 
hand  with  ridiculous  gravity,  and  left  the  cabin. 

The  truth  was,  he  was  glad  to  be  rid  of  La 
Rue,  and  so  he  was  but  freed  from  her,  he  cared 
not  who  fell  a  victim  to  her  infamous  arts. 

The  inexperienced  Charlotte  was  astonished 
at  what  she  heard.  She  thought  La  Rue  had, 
like  herself,  only  been  urged  by  the  force  of  her 
attachment  to  Belcour,  to  quit  her  friends  and 
follow  him  to  the  seat  of  war :  how  wonderful 
then  that  she  should  resolve  to  marry  another 
man.  It  was  certainly  extremely  wrong.  It  was 
indelicate.  She  mentioned  her  thoughts  to  Mon- 
traville.     He  laughed  at  her  simplicity,  called 


?6 

fier  a  little  ideot,  and  patting  her  on  the  cheek? 
£aid  she  knew  nothing  of  the  world,  f  If  the 
world  sanctions  such  things,  'tis  a  very  bad  world 
I  think/  said  Charlotte.  l  Why  I  always  under- 
stood they  were  to  have  been  married  when  they 
arrived  at  New- York.  I  am  sure  Mademoiselle 
iold  me  Belcour  promised  to  marry  her-' 

*  Well,  and  suppose  he  did  ? 

4  Why,  he  should  be  obliged  to  keep  his  word, 
I  think.' 

•  Well^  but  I  suppose  he  has  changed  his  mind,' 
Said  Montraville,  '  and  then  you  know  the  ease 
3s  altered/ 

Charlotte  looked  at  him  attentively  for  a  mo- 
inent.  A  full  sense  of  her  own  situation  rushed 
upon  her  mind ;  she  burst  into  tears  and  remain- 
ed silent;— "Montraville  too  well  understood  the 
cause  of  her  tears*  He  kissed  her  cheek,  and 
hid  her  not  to  make  herself  uneasy ;  and  unable 
±b  bear  the  keen  but  silent  remonstrance,  hastily 
left  hen 

The  next  morning  by  sunrise  they  found  them- 
selves at  anchor  before  the  city  of  New- York. 
A  boat  was  ordered  to  convey  the  ladies  on  shore. 
Crayton  accompanied  them,  and  they  were  shewn 
iti  a  house  Of  public  entertainment.  Scarcely 
vrere  they  seated  when  the  door  opened,  and  the 
feolonel  found  himself  in  the  arms  of  his  daugh- 
ieti  who  had  landed  a  few  minutes  before  him* 
The  first  transport  of  meeting  subsided,  Crayton 
introduced  his  daughter  to  Mademoiselle  La 
Jfciie,  as  an  old  friend  of  her  mother's  (for  the 
artful  French  woman  had  really  made  it  appear 
tsthe  credulous  Colonel  that  she  was  in  the  same 


71* 

convent  with  his  first  wife,  and,  though  mucfy 
younger,  had  received  many  tokens  of  her  esteen> 
and  regard.) 

4  If,  Mademoiselle,'  said  Mrs.  Beauehamp, 
*you  were  the  friend  of  my  mother,  you  must 
be  worthy  the  esteem  of  all  good  hearts.' 

4  Mademoiselle  will  soon  honour  our  family,* 
said  Crayton?  4  by  supplying  the  place  that  va- 
luable woman  filled  >  and  as  you  are  married^my 
dear,  I  think  you  will  not  blame  ,.      >' 

4  Hush,  my  dear  Sir,' replied  Mrs.  Beaucharnp^ 
'  I  know  my  duty  too  well  to  scrutinize  your  con- 
duct ;  be  assured,  my  dear  father,  your  happU 
ness  is  mine ;  I  shall  rejoice  in  it,  and  sincerely* 
love  the  person  who  contributes  to  it.  But  tel| 
me,'  continued  she,  turning  to  Charlotte,  4  who* 
is  this  lovely  girl !  is  she  your  sister,  Mademow 
selle?' 

A  blush,  deep  as  the  glow  of  the  carnation^' 
suffused  the  cheeks  of  Charlotte. 

4  It  is  a  young  lady,'  replied  the  Colonel,  *  who> 
came  in  the  same  vessel  with  us  from  England.* 
He  then  drew  his  daughter  aside,  and  told  her 
in  a  whisper,  that  Charlotte  was  the  mistress  o£ 
Montraville, 

4  What  a  pity  P  said  Mrs.  Beauchamp  softly, 
{casting  a  most  compassionate  glance  at  her)— ? 
4  But  surely  her  mind  is  not  depraved.  The 
goodness  of  her  heart  is  depicted  in  her  inger 
nuous  countenance.' 

Charlotte  caught  the  word  pity  :  4  And  am  £ 
already  fallen  so  low  ?'  said  she.  A  sigh  es- 
caped her,  and  a  tear  was  ready  to  start ;  but 
Montraville  appeared,  and  she  checked  the  rhr 


72 

ing  emotion.— Mademoiselle  went  with  the  Co- 
lonel and  his  daughter  to  another  apartment. 
Charlotte  remained  with  Montraville  and  Bel^ 
cour.  The  next  morning  the  Colonel  performed 
his  promise,  and  La  Rue  became,  in  due  form, 
Mrs.  Cray  ton,  exulted  in  her  own  good  fortune, 
and  dared  to  look  with  an  eye  of  contempt  on 
the  unfortunate  but  far  less  guilty  Charlotte. 


CHAP.  XVIII. 

Reflection* 

AND  am  I  indeed  fallen  so  low,'  said  Char* 
lotte, '  as  to  be  only  pitied  ?  Will  the  voice  of 
approbation  no  more  meet  my  ear  ?  And  shall  I 
never  again  possess  a  friend,  whose  face  will 
wear  a  smile  of  joy  whenever  I  approach  I  Alas  ! 
how  thoughtless,  how  dreadfully  imprudent  have 
I  been !  I  know  not  which  is  most  painful  to  en- 
dure, the  sneer  of  contempt,  or  the  glance  of 
compassion,  which  is  depicted  on  the  various 
countenances  of  my  own  sex;  they  are  both 
equally  humiliating.  Alas !  my  dear  parents,, 
could  you  now  see  the  child  of  your  affections, 
the  daughter  whom  you  so  dearly  loved,  a  poor 
solitary  being,  without  society,  here  wearing  out 
her  heavy  hours  in  deep  regret  and  anguish  of 
heart,  no  kind  friend  of  her  own  sex  to  whom 
she  can  unbosom  her  griefs,  no  beloved  mother^ 
no  woman  of  character  to  appear  in  my  compa- 
ny ;  and  low  as  your  Charlotte  is  fallen,  she  can- 
sot  associate  with  infamy*3 


n        .  \ 

These  were  the  painful  sensations  which  of 
xupied  the  mind  of  Charlotte.     Montraville  had 
placed  her  in  a  small  house,  a  few  miles  from. 
New.  York  :  he  gave  her  one  female  attendant 
and  supplied  her  with  what  money  she  wanted  - 
but  business  and  pleasure  so  entirely  occupied  his 
time,  that  he  had  but  little  to  devote  to  the  woman 
whom  he  had  brought  from  all  her  connections, 
and  robbed  of  her  innocence.     Sometimes,  in- 
deed, he  would  steal  out  at  the  close  of  evening 
and  pass  a  few  hours  with  her;  and  then  so  much 
was  she  attaci    d  to  him,  that  all  her  sorrows 
were  forgotten  while  blest  with  his  society ;  she 
would  enjoy  a  walk  by  moonlight,  and  sit  by 
him  m  a  little  arbour  at  the  bottom  of  the  gar- 
den, and  play  on  the  harp,  accompanying  it  with 
her  plaintive,   harmonious  voice.      But  often 
very  often    did  he  promise  to  renew  his  visits* 
and  forgetful  of  his  promise,  leave  her  to  mourn 
her  disappointment.     What  painful  hours  of  ex 
pectation  would  she  pass !  she  would  sit  at  a  win- 
dow which  looked  toward  a  field  he  used  to  cross 
counting  the  minutes,  and  straining  her  eyes  to 
catch  the  first  glimpse  of  his  person,  till,  blinded 
with  tears  of  disappointment,  she  would J  ean  her 
head  on  her  hands,  and  give  free  vent  to  her  sor- 
rows;   then  catching  at  some  new  hope,  she 
would  again  renew  her  watchful  position,  ti  1  the 
shades  of  evening  enveloped  every  obj'ect  in  a 
dusky  cloud  ;    she  would  then  renew  her  com! 
plaints    and  with  a  heart  bursting  with  disan- 
pmnted  love  and  wounded  sensibility,  retire  fo 
a  bed  which  remorse  had  strewed  with  thorns! 
and  court  m  vain  that  comforter  of  weary  &' 


74 

ture,  (who  seldom  visits  the  unhappy)  to  come 
and  sleep  her  senses  in  oblivion. 

Who  can  form  an  adequate  idea  of  the  sor- 
row that  preyed  upon  the  mind  of  Charlotte  ?— 
The  wife  whose  breast  glows  with  affection  to 
her  husband,  and  who  in  return  meets  only  in- 
difference, can  but  faintly  conceive  her  anguish. 

Dreadfully  painful  is  the  situation  of  such  a 
woman,  but  she  has  many  comforts  of  which  our 
poor  Charlotte  was  deprived.  The  duteous, 
faithful  wife,  though  treated  with  indifference, 
has  one  solid  pleasure  within  her  own  bosom  ; 
she  can  reflect  that  she  has  not  deserved  neglect, 
that  she  has  ever  fulfilled  the  duties  of  her  sta- 
tion with  the  strictest  exactness  ;  she  mav  hope, 
by  constant  assiduity  and  unremitted  attention, 
to  recall  her  wanderer  and  be  doubly  happy  in  his 
returning  affection ;  she  knows  he  cannot  leave 
her  to  unite  himself  to  another ;  he  cannot  cast 
her  out  to  poverty  and  contempt ;  she  looks 
around  her,  and  sees  the  smile  of  friendly  wel- 
come, or  the  tear  of  affectionate  consolation  on 
the  face  of  every  person  whom  she  favours  with 
her  esteem ;  and  from  all  these  circumstances 
she  gathers  comfort.  But  the  poor  girl,  by 
thoughtless  passion  led  astray,  who,  in  parting 
with  her  honour,  has  forfeited  the  esteem  of  the 
very  man  to  whom  she  has  sacrificed  every  thing 
dear  and  valuable  in  life,  feels  his  indifference 
in  the  fruit  of  her  own  folly,  and  laments  her 
want  of  power  to  recall  his  lost  affection  ;  she 
knows  there  is  no  tie  but  honour,  and  that,  in  a 
man  who  has  been  guilty  of  seduction,  is  but 
very  feeble ;  he  may  leave  her  in  a  moment  to 


IS 

shame  and  want ;  he  may  marry  and  forsake  her 
forever ;  and  should  he,  she  has  no  redress,  no 
friendly  soothing  companion  to  pour  into  her 
wounded  mind  the  balm  of  consolation — no  be- 
nevolent hand  to  lead  her  back  to  the  path  of 
rectitude  ;  she  has  disgraced  her  friends,  forfeit- 
ed the  good  opinion  of  the  world,  and  undone 
herself;  she  feels  herself  a  poor  solitary  being, 
in  the  midst  of  surrounding  multitudes  ;  shame 
bows  her  to  the  earth,  remorse  tears  her  dis- 
tracted mind,  and  guilt,  poverty  and  disease  close 
the  dreadful  scene ;  she  sinks  unnoticed  to  ob* 
livion.  The  finger  of  contempt  may  point  out 
to  some  passing  daughter  of  youthful  mirth  the 
humble  bed  where  lies  this  frail  sister  of  morta- 
lity ;  and  will  she,  in  the  unbounded  gaiety  of 
her  heart,  exult  in  her  own  unblemished  fame, 
and  triumph  over  the  silent  ashes  of  the  dead  ? 
Oh  no !  has  she  a  heart  of  sensibility,  she  will 
stop  and  thus  address  the  unhappy  victim  of  folly: 

4  Thou  hadst  thy  faults,  but  sure  thy  suffer- 
ings have  expiated  them;  thy  errors  brought  thee 
to  an  early  grave ;  but  thou  wert  a  fellow  crea- 
ture— thou  hast  been  unhappy — then  be  those 
errors  forgotten.' 

Then,  as  she  stoops  to  pluck  the  noxious  weed 
from  off  the  sod,  a  tear  will  fall  and  consecrate 
the  spot  to  Charity. 

Forever  honoured  be  the  sacred  drop  of  hu- 
manity ;  the  angel  of  mercy  shall  record  its  force, 
and  the  soul  whence  it  sprung  shall  be  immortal. 

My  dear  Madam,  contract  not  your  brow  in- 
to a  frown  of  disapprobation.  I  mean  not  to  ex- 
tenuate the  faults  of  those  unhappy  women  who 


76 

fall  victims  to  guilt  and  folly ;  but  surely,  when 
we  reflect  how  many  errors  we  are  Ourselves 
subject  to,  how  many  secret  faults  lie  hid  in  the 
recesses  of  our  hearts,  which  we  should  blush 
to  have  brought  into  open  day  (and  yet  those 
faults  require  the  lenity  and  pity  of  a  benevolent 
judge,  or  awful  would  be  our  prospect  of  futu- 
rity)—! say,  my  dear  Madam,  when  we  con- 
sider this,  we  surely  may  pity  the  faults  of  others. 

Believe  me,  many  an  unfortunate  female,  who 
has  once  strayed  into  the  thorny  paths  of  vice, 
would  gladly  return  to  virtue,  was  any  generous 
friend  to  endeavour  to  raise  and  reasure  her : 
but  alas !  it  cannot  be,  you  say ;  the  world  would 
deride  and  scoff.  Then  let  me  tell  you,  Madam, 
'tis  a  very  unfeeling  world,  and  does  not  deserve 
half  the  blessings  which  a  bountiful  Providence 
showers  upon  it. 

Oh,  thou  benevolent  giver  of  all  good !  how 
shall  we  erring  mortals  dare  to  look  up  to  thy 
Biercy  in  the  great  day  of  retribution,  if  we  now 
uncharitably  refuse  to  overlook  the  errors,  or 
alleviate  the  miseries  of  our  fellow  creatures  ! 


CHAP.  XIX. 

A  mistake  discovered* 

JULIA  FRANKLIN  was  the  only  child 
©f  a  man  of  large  property,  who,  at  the  age  of 
(eighteen  left  her  independent  mistress  of  an  un- 
incumbered income  of  seven  hundred  a  year  j, 


she  was  a  girl  of  a  lively  disposition,  and  hu- 
mane, susceptible  heait;  she  resided  in  New- 
York  with  an  uncle,  who  loved  her  too  well,  and 
had  too  high  an  opinion  of  her  prudence,  to 
scrutinize  her  actions  so  much  as  would  have 
been  necessary  with  many  young  ladies  who 
were  not  blest  with  her  discretion.  She  was,  at 
the  time  Montraville  arrived  at  New-York,  the 
life  of  society,  <md  the  universal  toast.  Mon- 
traville was  introduced  to  her  by  the  following 
accident. 

One  night,  when  he  was  upon  guard,  a  dread- 
ful fire  broke  out  near  Mr.  Franklin's  house, 
which,  in  a  lew  hours,  reduced  that  and  several 
others  to  ashes ;  fortunately  no  lives  were  lost, 
and  by  the  assiduity  of  the  soldiers  much  valu- 
able property  was  saved  from  the  flames.  In  the 
midst  of  this  confusion,  an  old  gentleman  came 
up  to  Montraville,  and  putting  a  small  box  into 
his  hands,  cried— lKreep  it,  my  good  sir,  till  I 
come  to  you  again' — and  then  rushing  again  in- 
to the  thickest  of  the  croud,  Montraville  saw 
him  no  more.  He  waited  till  the  fire  was  extin- 
guished and  the  mob  dispersed;  but  in  vain; 
the  old  gentleman  did  not  appear  to  claim  his 
property ;  and  Montraville,  fearing  to  make  any 
inquiry,  lest  he  should  meet  with  impostors  who 
might  lay  claim,  without  any  right  to  the  box, 
carried  it  to  his  lodgings,  and  locked  it  up;  he 
naturally  imagined  that  the  person  who  commit- 
ted i^to  his  care  knew  him,  and  would,  in  a  day 
or  two,  reclaim  it ;  but  several  weeks  passed  ony 
and  no  inquiry  being  made,  he  began  to  be  un- 
casv,  and  resolved  to  examine  the  contents  of 
G2 


the  box,  and  if  they  were,  as  he  supposed,  valu*- 
able,  to  spare  no  pains  to  discover  and  restore 
them  to  the  owner.  Upon  opening  it,  he  found 
it  contained  jewels  to  a  large  amount,  about  two 
hundred  pounds  in  money,  and  a  miniature  pic- 
ture set  for  a  bracelet.  On  examining  the  pic- 
ture, he  thought  he  had  somewhere  seen  fea- 
tures very  like  it,  but  could  not  recollect  where. 
A  few  days  after,  being  at  a  public  assembly,  he 
saw  Miss  Franklin,  and  the  likeness  was  too  evi- 
dent to  be  mistaken ;  he  inquired  among  his 
brother  officers  if  any  of  them  knew  her,  and 
found  one  who  was  upon  terms  of  intimacy  in 
the  family—'  then  introduce  me  to  her  immedi- 
ately,' said  he,  '  for  I  am  certain  I  can  inform 
her  of  something  which  will  give  her  peculiar 
pleasure.' 

He  was  immediately  introduced,  found  she 
was  the  owner  of  the  jewels,  and  was  invited  to 
breakfast  next  morning,  in  order  to  their  resti- 
tution. The  whole  evening  Montraville  was, 
honoured  with  Julia's  hand ;  the  lively  sallies 
of  her  wit,  the  elegance  of  her  manner,  power* 
fully  charmed  him  ;  he  forgot  Charlotte,  and  in- 
dulged himself  in  saying  every  thing  that  was 
polite  and  tender  to  Julia;  but  on  retiring  re- 
collection returned.  '  What  am  I  about !'  said 
he  ;  fc  though  I  cannot  marry  Charlotte,  I  cannot 
be  villain  enough  to  forsake  her,  npr  must  I  dare 
to  trifle  with  the  heart  of  Julia  Franklin.  I  will 
return  this  box,'  said  he,  'which  has  been  the 
source  of  so  much  uneasiness  already,  and  in  the 
evening  pay  a  visit  to  my  poor  melancholy  Char- 
lotte, and  endeavour  to  forget  this  fascinating 
Jul*.' 


79 

He  arose,  dressed  himself,  am1  taking  the  pic- 
ture out,  *  I  will  reserve  this  from  the  rest,'  said 
he,  4  and  by  presenting  it  to  her  when  she  thinks 
it  is  lost,  enhance  the  value  of  the  obligation,1  He 
repaired  to  Mr.  Franklin's,  and  found  Julia  in 
the  breakfast  parlour  alone. 

1  How  happy  am  I,  Madam,'  said  he,  *  that 
being  the  fortunate  instrument  of  saving  those 
jewels  has  been  the  means  of  procuring  me  the 
acquaintance  of  so  amiable  a  lady.  There  are 
the  jewels  and  money  all  safe.' 

4  But  where  is  the  picture,  Sir?'  said  Julia. 

*  Here,  Madam ;  1  would  not  willingly  part 
with  it.' 

4  It  is  the  portrait  of  my  mother,'  said  she,  tak- 
ing it  from  him  ;  4  'tis  all  that  remains.'  She 
pressed  it  to  her  lips,  and  a  tear  trembled  in  her 
eyes.  Montraville  glanced  his  eye  on  her  grey 
night-gown  and  black  ribbon,  and  his  own  feel- 
ings prevented  a  reply. 

Julia  Franklin  was  the  very  reverse  of  Char- 
lotte Temple :  She  was  tall,  elegantly  shaped, 
and  possessed  much  of  the  air  and  manner  of  a 
woman  of  fashion ;  her  complexion  was  a  clear 
brown,  enlivened  with  the  glow  of  health,  her 
eyes  full,  black,  and  sparkling,  darted  their  in- 
telligent glances  through  long  silken  lashes,  her 
hair  was  shining  brown,  and  her  features  regu- 
lar and  striking ;  there  was  an  air  of  innocent 
gaiety  that  played  about  her  countenance,  where 
good  humour  sat  triumphant. 

4 1  have  been  mistaken,'  said  Montraville.  'I 
imagined  I  loved  Charlotte  ;  but,  alas !  I  am 
now  too  late  convinced  mv  attachment;  tp  feeg 


80 

was  merely  the  impulse  cf  the  moment.  I  fear 
I  have  not  only  entailed  lasting  misery  on  that 
poor  girl,  but  also  thrown  a  barrier  in  the  way 
of  my  own  happiness,  which  it  will  be  impossi- 
ble to  surmount.  I  feel  I  love  Julia  Franklin 
with  ardour  and  sincerity  ;  yet,  when  in  her  pre- 
sence, I  am  sensible  of  my  own  inability  to  offer 
a  heart  worthy  her  acceptance,  and  rem  *f*i  silent.' 

Full  of  these  painful  thoughts,  Montraville 
walked  out  to  see  Charlotte  ;  she  saw  him  ap- 
proach, and  ran  out  to  meet  him  j  she  banished 
from  her  countenance  the  air  of  discontent  which 
ever  appeared  when  he  was  absent,  and  met  him 
with  a  smile  of  joy. 

*  I  thought  you  had  forgot  me,  Montraville,' 
said  she,  '  and"  was  very  unhappy.' 

4 1  shall  never  forget  you  Charlotte,'  he  repli- 
ed, pressing  her  hand. 

The  uncommon  gravity  of  his  countenance, 
and  the  brevity  of  his  reply,  alarmed  her. 

4  You  are  not  well,'  said  she;  'your  hand  is 
hot,  your  eyes  are  heavy  ;  you  are  very  ill.' 

4 1  am  a  villain,  said  he  mentally,  as  he  turn- 
ed from  her  to  hide  his  emotions. 

4  But  come,'  continued  she,  tenderly,  4  you 
shall  go  to  bed,  and  I  will  sit  by  and  watch, you ; 
you  will  be  better  when  you  have  slept.' 

Montraville  was  glad  to  retire,  and  by  pre- 
tending sleep,  hid  the  agitation  of  his  mind  from 
her  penetrating  eye.  Charlotte  watched  by  him 
till  a  late  hour,  and  then,  lying  softly  down  by 
his  side,  sunk  into  a  profound  sleep,  from  which 
she  awoke  not  till  late  the  next  morning. 


,8.1 


CHAP.  XX. 

Virtue  never  appears  so  amiable  as  when  reaching  forth  her 
hand  to  raise  a  fallen  sister.-^  Chapter  of  Accidents. 

WHEN  Charlotte  awoke  she  missed  Mon- 
traville  ;  but  thinking  he  might  have  arisen  ear- 
ly to  enjoy  the  beauties  of  the  morning,  she  was 
preparing  to  follow  him,  when,  casting  her  eye 
on  the  table,  she  saw  a  note,  and  opening  it  has- 
tily, found  these  words : 

"  My  dear  Charlotte  must  not  be  surprised,  if  she 
does  not  see  me  again  for  some  time :  unavoidable 
business  will  prevent  me  that  pleasure :  be  assured 
I  am  quite  well  this  morning;  and  what  your  fond 
imagination  magnified  into  illness,  was  nothing  more 
than  fatigue,  which  a  few  hours  rest  has  entirely  re- 
moved. Make  yourself  happy,  and  be  certain  of  the 
unalterable  friendship  of         MONTRAVILLE. 

4  Friendship  /'  said  Charlotte,  emphatically,  as 
she  finished  the  note  ;  '  is  it  come  to  this  at  last  t 
Alas  !  poor,  forsaken  Charlotte,  thy  doom  is  now 
but  too  apparent.  Motitraville  is  no  longer  in- 
terested in  thy  happiness  ;  and  shame,  remorse, 
and  disappointed  love  will  henceforth  be  thy  only 
attendants.'  « 

TWugh  these  were  the  ideas  that  involunta- 
rily pished  upon  the  mind  of  Charlotte,  as  she 
perused  the  fatal  note,  yet,  after  a  few  hours  had 
elapsed,  the  syren  hope  again  took  possession  of 
her  bosom,  and  she  flattered  herself  she  could, 
on  a  second  perusal,  discover  an  air  of  tender- 
ness in  the  few. lines  he  had  left,  which  had  at 
first  escaped  her  notice.     4  He   certainly   can- 


82 

not  be  so  base  as  to  leave  me,'  said  she,  c  and  in 
styling  himself  my  friend,  does  he  not  promise 
to  protect  me  ?  I  will  not  torment  myself  with 
these  causeless  fears;  I  will  place  a  confidence 
in  his  honour,  and  sure  he  will  not  be  so  unjust 
as  to  abuse  it.' 

Just  as  she  had,  by  this  manner  of  reasoning, 
brought  her  mind  to  some  tolerable  degree  of 
composure,  she  was  surprised  by  a  visit  from 
Belcour.  The  dejection  visible  in  Charlotte's 
countenance,  her  swoln  eyes  and  neglected  attire, 
at  once  told  him  she  was  unhappy ;  he  made  no 
doubt  but  Montraville  had,  by  his  coldness, 
alarmed  her  suspicions,  and  was  resolved,  if 
possible,  to  rouse  her  to  jealousy,  urge  her  to 
reproach  him,  and  by  that  means  occasion  a 
breach  between  them.  4  If  I  can  once  convince 
her  that  she  has  a  rival,'  said  he,  4  she  will  lis- 
ten to  my  passion  if  it  is  only  to  revenge  his 
slights.'  Belcour  knew  but  little  of  the  female 
heart ;  and  what  he  did  know,  was  only  of  those 
of  loose  and  dissolute  lives.  He  had  no  idea 
that  a  woman  might  fall  a  victim  to  imprudence, 
and  yet  retain  so  strong  a  sense  of  honour,  as  to 
reject  with  horror  and  contempt  every  solicita- 
tion to  a  second  fault.  He  never  imagined  that 
a  gentle,  generous  female  heart,  once  tenderly 
attached,  when  treated  with  unkindness,  nught 
break,  but  would  never  harbour  a  thought  of  re- 
venge. 

His  visit  was  not  long ;  but  before  he  went,  he 
fixed  a  scorpion  in  the  heart  of  Charlotte,  whose 
venom  embittered  every  future  hour  of  her  life. 

We  will  now  return  for  a  moment  to  CoL». 


8S 

Cray  ton.  He  had  been  three  months  married, 
and  in  that  little  time  had  discovered  that  the 
conduct  of  his  lady  was  not  so  prudent  as  it 
ought  to  have  been :  but  remonstrance  was  vain  ; 
her  temper  was  violent ;  and  to  the  Colonel's 
great  misfortune,  he  had  conceived  a  sincere  af- 
fection for  her  :  she  saw  her  own  power,  and 
with  the  art  of  a  Circe,  made  every  action  ap- 
pear to  him  in  what  light  she  pleased ;  his  ac- 
quaintance laughed  at  his  blindness,  his  friends 
pitied  his  infatuation,  his  amiable  daughter, 
Mrs.  Beauchamp,  in  secret,  deplored  the  loss  of 
her  father's  affection,  and  grieved  that  he  should 
be  so  entirely  swayed  by  an  artful,  and,  she 
much  feared,  infamous  woman. 

Mrs.  Beauchamp  was  mild  and  engaging ;  she 
loved  not  the  hurry  and  bustle  of  a  city,  and  had 
prevailed  on  her  husband  to  take  a  house  a  few 
miles  from  New- York.  Chance  led  her  into  the 
same  neighbourhood  with  Charlotte.  Their 
houses  stood  within  a  short  space  of  each  other, 
and  their  gardens  joined.  She  had  not  been  long 
in  her  new  habitation  before  the  figure  of  Char- 
lotte struck  her ;  she  recollected  her  interesting 
features ;  she  saw  the  melancholy  so  conspicu- 
ous in  her  countenance,  and  her  heart  bled  at 
the  reflection,  that  perhaps  deprived  of  honour, 
friends,  and  all  that  was  valuable  in  life,  she  was 
doomed  to  linger  out  a  wretched  existence  in  a 
strange  land,  and  sink  broken-hearted  into  an 
untimely  grave  *  Would  to  heaven  I  could 
snatch  her  from  so  hard  a  fate,'  said  she ;  4  but 
the  merciless  world  has  barred  the  doors  of  com- 
passion against  a  poor  weak  girl,  who,  perhaps. 


S4 

had  she  one  kind  friend  to  raise  and  reasure 
her,  would  gladly  return  to  peace  and  virtue ; 
nay,  even  the  woman  who  dares  to  pity  and  en- 
deavour to  recall  a  wandering  sister,  incurs  the 
sneer  of  contempt  and  ridicule,  for  an  action  in 
which  even  angels  are  said  to  rejoice.' 

The  longer  Mrs.J5eauchamp  was  a  witness  to 
the  solitary  life  Charlotte  led,  the  more  she  wish- 
ed to  speak  to  her,  and  often  as  she  saw  her  cheeks 
wet  with  the  tears  of  anguish,  she  would  say — 
'Dear  sufferer,  how  gladly  would  I  pour  into 
your  heart  the  balm  of  consolation,  were  it  not 
for  the  fear  of  derision.' 

But  an  accident  soon  happened  which  made 
her  resolve  to  brave  even  the  scoffs  of  the  world, 
rather  than  not  enjoy  the  heavenly  satisfaction 
of  comforting  a  desponding  fellow  creature. 

Mrs.  Beauchamp  was  an  early  riser.  She  was 
one  morning  walking  in  the  garden,  leaning  on 
her  husband's  arm,  when  the  sound  of  a  harp  at- 
tracted their  notice ;  they  listened  attentively, 
and  heard  a  soft  melodious  voice  distinctly  sing 
the  following  stanzas : 

Thou  glorious  orb,  supremely  bright, 

Just  rising  from  the  sea, 
To  cheer  all  nature  with  thy  light, 

What  are  thy  beams  to  me  ? 

In  vain  thy  glories  bid  me  rise, 

To  hail  the  new-born  day  ; 
Alas  !  my  morning  sacrifice 

Is  still  to  weep  and  pray.  j&M 

For  what  are  nature's  charms  comb  in' d, 

To  one,  whose  weary  breast 
Can  neither  peace  nor  comfort  findt 

Nor  i/ignd  whgrcoii  to  rest !. 


85 

©h!  never!  never!  tyrhilst  t  live, 
Can  my  heart's  anguish  cease  :- 

Come,  friendly  death,  thy  mandate  givjj, 
And  let  me  be  at  peace, 

tVTis  poor  Charlotte  !'  said  Mrs.  Beauchamp, 
the  pellucid  drop  of  humanity  stealing  down  her 
cheek. 

Major  Beauchamp  was  alarmed  at  her  emo* 
tion.  fc  What  Charlotte  V  said  he ;  '  do  you  know 
her?' 

In  the  accent  of  a  pitying  angel  did  she  dis- 
close to  her  husband  Charlotte's  unhappy  situa- 
tion, and  the  frequent  wish  she  had  formed  of 
being  serviceable  to  her.  J- 1  fear,'  continued 
she,  'the  poor  girl  has  been  basely  betrayed) 
and  if  I  thought  you  would  not  blame  me,  I 
would  pay  her  a  visit,  offer  her  my  friendship, 
and  endeavour  to  restore  to  her  heart  that  peace 
she  seems  to  have  lost,  and  so  pathetically  la- 
ments. Who  knows,  my  dear,'  laying  her  hand 
affectionately  on  his  arm,  '  who  knows  but  she 
has  left  some  kind,  affectionate  parents  to  lament 
her  errors,  and  would  she  return,  they  might 
with  rapture  receive  the  poor  penitent,  and  wash 
away  her  faults  in  tears  of  joy.  Oh !  what  a 
glorious  reflection  would  it  be  for  me,  could  I 
be  the  happy  instrument  of  restoring  her.  Her 
heart  may  not  be  depraved,  Beauchamp.' 

4  Exalted  woman !'  cried  Beauchamp,  embrac- 
ing her,  '  how  dost  thou  rise  every  moment  in 
my  esteem !  Follow  the  impulse  of  thy  gener- 
ous heart,  my  Emily.  Let  prudes  and  fools 
tjensure  if  they  dare,  and  blame  a  sensibility  they 
never  felt;  I  will  exultingly  tell  them  that  the 
H 


86 

heart  that  is  truly  virtuous  is  ever  inclined  to 
pity  and  forgive  the  errors  of  its  fellow  creatures.* 
A  beam  of  exulting  joy  played  round  the  ani- 
mated countenance  of  Mrs.  Beauchamp  at  these 
encomiums  bestowed  on  her  by  a  beloved  hus- 
band, the  most  delightful  sensations  pervaded 
her  heart,  and,  having  breakfasted,  she  prepared 
to  visit  Charlotte. 


CHAP.  XXI. 

Teaeh  me  to  feel  another's  woe, 

To  hide  the  fault  I  see; 
That  mercy  I  to  others  show, 

That  mercy  show  to  me.  Pope. 

WHEN  Mrs.  Beauchamp  was  dressed,  she 
began  to  feel  embarrassed  at  the  thought  of  be- 
ginning an  acquaintance  with  Charlotte,  and  was 
distressed  how  to  make  the  first  visit.  '  I  can- 
not go  without  some  introduction,'  said  she  l  it 
will  look  so  like  impertinent  curiosity.'  At 
length,  recollecting  herself,  she  stepped  into  the 
garden,  and  gathering  a  few  fine  cucumbers, 
took  them  in  her  hand  by  way  of  apology  for 
her  visit. 

A  glow  of  conscious  shame  vermillioned 
Charlotte's  face,  as  Mrs.  Beaucha.-ip  entered. 

'  You  will  pardon  me,  Madam,  said  she,  *  for 
not  having  before  paid  my  respects  to  so  amiable 
a  neighbour  ;  but  we  English  people  always  keep 
up  that  reserve  which  is  the  characteristic  of  our 
nation  wherever  we  go.     I  have  taken  the  liber- 


87 

ty  to  bring  you  a  few  cucumbers,  for  I  observ- 
ed you  had  none  in  your  garden.' 

Charlotte,  though  nam&uy  polite  and  well 
bred,  was  so  confused  she  could  hardly  speak. 
Her  kind  visitor  endeavoured  to  relieve  her  by 
not  noticing  her  embarrassment.  * 1  am  come, 
Madam,'  continued  she,  '  to  request  you  will 
spend  the  day  with  me.  I  shall  be  alone  ;  and, 
as  we  are  both  strangers  in  this  country,  we  may 
hereafter  be  extremely  happy  in  each  other's 
friendship.' 

'Your  friendship,  Madam,'  said  Charlotte, 
blushing, 4  is  an  honour  to  all  who  are  favoured 
with  it.  Little  as  I  have ^seen  of  this  part  of  the 
world,  I  am  no  strangerto  Mrs.  Beauchamp's 
goodness  of  heart  and  known  humanity  ;  but  my 
friendship—'  She  paused,  glanced  her  eyes 
upon  her  own  visible  situation,  and,  spite  of  her 
endeavours  to  suppress  them,  burst  into  tears. 

Mrs.  Beauchamp  guessed  the  source  from 
whence  those  tears  flowed.  *  You  seem  unhap- 
py, Madam,'  said  she ;  '  shall  I  be  thought  wor- 
thy your  confidence  ?  will  you  entrust  me  with 
the  cause  of  your  sorrow,  and  rest  on  my  assur- 
ances to  exert  my  utmost  power  to  serve  you.' 
Charlotte  returned  a  look  of  gratitude,  but  could 
not  speak.,  »nd  Mrs.  Beauchamp  continued — 
*  My  hea'  ,  interested  in  your  behalf  the  first 
moment  ;'  »  v  you,  and  I  only  lament  I  had  not 
made  easier  overtures  towards  an  acquaintance; 
but  I  flatter  myself  you  will  henceforth  consider 
me  as  your  friend.' 


4  Oh,  Madam  !'  cried  Charlotte,  '  I  have  for- 
feited the  good  opinion  of  alL  my  friends;  I  have 
forsaken  them,  and  undone  myself.1 

4  Come,  come,  my  dear,'  said  Mrs.  Beau- 
champ,  'you  must  not  indulge  these  gloomy 
thoughts.  You  are  not,  I  hope,  so  miserable  as 
you  imagine  yourself.  Endeavour  to  be  com- 
posed, and  let  me  be  favoured  with  your  com- 
pany at  dinner ;  wnen,  if  you  can  bring  your- 
self to  think  me  your  friend,  and  repose  a  con- 
fidence in  me,  I  am  ready  to  convince  you  It 
shall  not  be  abused.'  She  then  arose  and  bade 
her  good  morning.^*. 

At  the  dining  hourpCharlotte  repaired  to  Mrs* 
Beauchamp's,  and  dij^ng  dinner  assumed  as 
composed  an  aspect  as/possible  ;  but  when  the 
cloth  was  removed,  she  summoned  all  her  reso- 
lution, and  determined  to  make  Mrs.  Beau- 
champ  acquainted  with  every  circumstance  pre- 
ceding her  unfortunate  elopement,  and  the  ear- 
nest desire  she  had  to  quit  a  way  of  life  so  re- 
pugnant to  her  feelings. 

With  the  benignant  aspect  of  an  angel  of  mer- 
cy did  Mrs.  Beauehamp listen  to  the  artless  tale: 
she  was  shocked  to  the  soul  to  find  how  large  a 
share  La  Rue  had  in  the  seduction  of  this  ami- 
able girl,  and  a  tear  fell  when  she  reflected  so 
vile  a  woman  was  now  the  wife  c^her  father. 
When  Charlotte  had  finished,  she  gaVe  her  a  lit- 
tle time  to  collect  her  scattered  spirits,  and  then 
asked  her  if  she  had  never  written  to  her  friends. 
4  Oh  yes,  Madam,'  said  she,  frequently  :  but 
I  have  broke  their  hearts ;  they  are  either  dead 


89 

<Jr  have  ca9t  me  off  forever,  for  I  have  never  re- 
ceived a  single  line  from  them." 

*  I   rather   suspect,'   said   Mrs.   Beauchamp-, 

*  they  never  have  had  your  letters  ;  but  suppose 
you  were  to  hear  from  them,  and  they  were  wil- 
ling to  receive  you,  would  you  then  leave  this 
cruel  Montraville,  and  return  to  them  V 

4  Would  I !'  said  Charlotte,  clasping  her  hands, 

*  would  not  the  poor  sailor,  tost  on  a  tempestu- 
ous ocean,  threatened  every  moment  with  death, 
gladly  return  to  the  shore  he  had  left,  nor  trust 
to  its  deceitful  calmness  ?  Oh  !  my  dear  Ma- 
dam, I  would  return,  though  to  do  it  I  were 
obliged  to  walk  barefooted  over  a  burning  de- 
sert and  beg  a  scanty  pittance  of  each  traveller 
to  support  my  existence.  I  would  endure  it  all 
cheerfully,  could  I  but  once  more  see  my  dear 
blessed  mother,  hear  her  pronounce  my  pardon, 
and  bless  me  before  I  died  :  but  alas  !  I  shall 
never  see  her  more  ;  she  has  blotted  the  ungrate- 
ful Charlotte  Jrom  her  remembrance,  and  I  shall 
sink  to  the  grave  loaded  with  hers  and  my  fa- 
ther's curse.' 

Mrs.  Beauchamp  endeavoured  to  sooth  her. 

*  You  shall  write  to  them  again,'  said  she,  and  I 
will  see  that  the  letter  is  sent  by  the  first  packet 
that  sails  for  England ;  in  the  meantime  keep 
up  your  splits,  and  hope  every  thing,  by  daring 
to  deserve  it. 

She  then  turned  the  conversation,  and  Char- 
lotte having  taken  a  cup  of  tea,  wished  her  be- 
nevolent friend  a  good  evening. 
H-2 


SO 

CHAP.  XXII. 

Sorrows  of  the  heart* 

WHEN  Charlotte  got  home,  she  endea- 
voured to  collect  her  thoughts,  and  took  up  a 
pen  in  order  to  address  those  dear  parents,  whom, 
spite  of  her  errors,  she  still  loved  with  the  ut- 
most tenderness  :  but  vain  was  every  effort  to 
write  with  the  least  coherance ;  her  tears  fell  so 
fast  they  almost  blinded  her,  and  as  she  proceed- 
ed to  describe  her  unhappy  situation,  she  became 
so  agitated  that  she  was  obliged  to  give  over  the 
attempt  and  retire  to  bed,  where,  overcome  with 
the  fatigue  her  mind  had  undergone,  she  fell  into 
a  slumber  which  greatly  refreshed  her,  and  she 
arose  in  the  morning  with  spirits  more  adequate 
to  the  painful  task  she  had  to  perform ;  and  af- 
ter several  attempts,  at  length  concluded  the  fol- 
lowing letter  to  her  mother : 

To  Mrs.  Temple. 

New-York. 

"  Will  my  once  kind,  my  ever  beloved  mo- 
ther, deign  to  receive  a  letter  from  her  guilty, 
but  repentant  child  ?  or  has  she,  justly  incensed 
at  my  ingratitude,  driven  her  unhappy  Charlotte 
from  her  remembrance  ?  Alas  !  thou  much  in- 
jured mother !  shouldst  thou  even  disown  me, 
I  dare  not  complain,  because  I  know  I  have  de- 
served it ;  but  yet,  believe  me,  guilty  as  I  am, 
and  cruelly  as  I  have  disappointed  the  hopes  of 
tlje  fondest  of  parents  that  ever  girl  had,  even  in 


91 

the  moment  when,  forgetful  of  ray  duty,  I  fled 
you  and  happiness,  even  then  I  loved  you  most* 
and  my  heart  bled  at  the  thought  of  what  you 
would  suffer.  Oh  !  never,  never,  whilst  1  have 
existence,  will  the  agony  of  that  moment  ba 
erased  from  my  memory.  It  seemed  like  the 
separation  of  soul  and  body. — What  can  I  plead 
in  excuse  for  my  conduct  ?  Alas  !  nothing.  That 
I  loved  my  seducer  is  but  too  true  !  Yet,  power- 
ful as  that  passion  is,  when  operating  in  a  young 
heart  glowing  with  sensibility,  it  never  would 
have  conquered  my  affectipn  to  you,  my  belov- 
ed parents,  had  I  not  been  encouraged,  nay, 
urged  to  take  the  fatal  imprudent  step  by  one  of 
my  own  sex;  who,  under  the  mask  of  friend- 
ship, drew  me  on  to  ruin.  Yet  think  not  your 
Charlotte  was  so  lost  as  to  voluntarily  rush  into 
a  life  of  infamy ;  no,  my  dear  mother,  deceived 
by  the  specious  appearance  of  my  betrayer,  and 
every  suspicion  lulled  asleep  by  the  most  solemn 
promises  of  marriage,  I  thought  not  those  pro- 
mises would  so  easily  be  forgotten.  I  never 
once  reflected  that  the  man  who  could  stoop  to 
seduction,  would  not  hesitate  to  forsake  the 
wretched  object  of  his  passion,  whenever  his  ca- 
pricious heart  grew  weary  of  her  tenderness. 
When  we  arrived  at  this  place  I  vainly  expected 
him  to  fulfil  his  engagements,  but  was  at  last  fatal- 
ly convinced  he  had  never  intended  to  make  me 
his  wife,  or  if  he  had  once  thought  of  it,  his  mind 
was  now  altered.  I  scorned  to  claim  from  his 
humanity  what  I  could  not  obtain  from  his  love ; 
I  was  conscious  of  having  forfeited  the  only  gem 
that  could  render  me  respectable  in  the  eye  of 


92 

the  world ;  I  locked  my  sorrows  in  my  own  b©- 
som,  and  bore  my  injuries  in  silence.  But  how 
shall  I  proceed  ?  This  man,  this  cruel  Montra- 
ville,  for  whom  I  sacrificed  honour,  happiness, 
and  the  love  of  my  friends,  no  longer  looks  on 
me  with  affection,  but  scorns  the  credulous  girl 
whom  his  art  has  made  miserable.  Could  you 
see  me,  my  dear  parents,  without  society,  with- 
out friends,  stung  with  remorse,  and  (I  feel  the 
burning  blush  of  shame  die,  my  cheeks  while  I 
write  it)  tortured  with  the  pangs  of  disappoint- 
ed love;  cut  to  the* soul  by  the  indifference  of 
him,  who,  having  deprived  me  of  every  other 
comfort,  no  longer  thinks  it  worth  his  while  to 
soothe  the  heart  where  he  has  planted  the  thorn 
of  never-ceasing  regret.  My  daily  employment 
is  to  think  of  you  and  weep,  to  pray  for  your 
happiness,  and  deplore  my  own  folly ;  my  nights 
are  scarce  more  happy ;  for,  if  by  chance  I  close 
my  weary  eyes  and  hope  some  small  forgetful- 
ness  of  sorrow,  some  little  time  to  pass  in  sweet 
oblivion,  fancy  still  waking,  wafts  me  home  to 
you :  I  see  your  beloved  forms,  I  kneel  and  hear 
the  blessed  words  of  peace  and  pardon.  Exta- 
tic  joy  pervades  my  soul;  I  reach  my  arms  to 
catch  your  dear  embraces ;  the  motion  chases 
the  illusive  dream ;  I  wake  to  real  misery.  At 
other  times  I  see  my  father  angry  and  frowning, 
point  to  horrid  caves,"  where,  on  the  cold  damp 
ground,  in  the  agonies  of  death,  I  see  my  dear 
mother  and  reverend  grand- father.  I  strive  to 
raise  you ;  you  push  me  from  you,  and  shriek- 
ing, cry — 4  Charlotte,  thou  has  murdered  me  !' 
Horror  and  despair  tear  every  tortured  nerve m, 


■93 

refreshed*1  leaVC  my  reStkSS  bed' WCary  and  UD* 
"  Shocking  as  these  reflections  are,  I  have  vet 
one  more  dreadful  than  the  rest.  Mother,  L 
dear  mother !  do  not  let  me  quite  break  your 
heart  when  I  tell  you,  in  a  few  months  I  shall 
J,',?U  mnu  w,0,rId,an  ^nocent  witness  of  my 
guilt.     Oh  my  bleeding  heart,  I  shall  brine  a 

shTme  pkSS  creature'h«r  to  infamy  and 

"  This  alone  has  urged  me  once  more  to  ad- 
dress you,  to  interest  you  in  behalf  of  this  poor 

tc !X  rsf-u  /S  y°?  t0  extend  vour  Protection 
to  the  Ch.ld  of  your  lost  Charlotte  j  for  my  own 
part,  I  have  written  so  often,  so  frequently  have 
pleaded  forgiveness,  and  entreated  to  be  receiv- 
ed once  more  beneath  the  paternal  roof,  that 
having  received  no  answer,  not  even  one  line,  I 
much  fear  you  have  cast  me  from  you  forever. 
But .sure  you  cannot  refuse  to  protect  my  in- 
nocent mfant;  it  partakes  not  of  its  mother's 
guiIt.—Oh  my  father!  oh  my  beloved  mother' 
now  do  I  feel  the  anguish  I  inflicted  on  your 
hear  s  recoiling  with  double  force  upon  my  own. 

forhirn^Vu  d  uh°Uld.  be  a  Sirl  Ohich  heaven 
anH  ^  t I hCr  the  VnhaPPy  fate  of  her  mother, 
and  teach  her  to  avoid  my  errors ;  if  a  boy,  teach 
in?  ?  lamunt  my  m'^ries,  but  tell  him  not  who 
mfl  cted  them,  lest  in  wishing  to  revenge  his 

his  faetherIDJUneS'       $h°Uld  W°Und  the  peace  of 
"  And  now,  dear  friends  of  my  soul,  kind 
guard.ans  of  my  infancy,  farewell.     I  feel  I  ne- 
ver more  must  hope  to  see  you;   the  anguish 


94 
•f  my  heart  strikes  at  the  strings  of  life,  and  in 
a  short  time  I  shall  be  at  rest.  Oh  could  I  but 
receive  your  blessing  and  forgiveness  before  I 
die,  it  would  smooth  my  passage  to  the  peaceful 
grave,  and  be  a  blessed  foretaste  of  a  happy  eter- 
nity. I  beseech  yOu,  curse  me  not,  my  adored 
parents,  but  let  a  tear  of  pity  and  pardon  fall  to 
the  memory  of  your  lost  Charlotte. 


CHAR  XXIII. 

A  man  may  smile,  and  smile^  and  be  a  villain. 

WHILE  Charlotte  was  enjoying  some  small 
degree  of  comfort  in  the  consoling  friendship  of 
Mrs.  Beauchamp,  Montraville  was  advancing 
rapidly  in  his  affection  towards  Miss  Franklin. 
Julia  was  an  amiable  girl :  she  saw  only  the  fair 
side  of  his  character ;  she  possessed  an  inde- 
pendent fortune,  and  resolved  to  be  happy  with 
the  man  of  her  heart,  though  his  rank  and  for- 
tune were  by  no  means  so  exalted  as  she  had  a 
right*  to  expect ;  she  saw  the  passion  which  Mon- 
traville struggled  to  conceal ;  she  wondered  at 
his  timidity,  but  imagined  the  distance  fortune 
had  placed  between  them  occasioned  his  back- 
wardness, and  made  every  advance  which  strict 
prudence  and  a  becoming  modesty  would  per- 
mit. Montraville  saw  with  pleasure  he  was  not 
indifferent  to  her,  but  a  spark  of  honour  which 
animated  his  bosom  would  not  suffer  him  to  take 
advantage  of  her  partiality.  He  was  well  ac- 
quainted   with   Charlotte's   situation,    and  he 


9J 
thought  there  would  be  a  double  cruelty  in  for- 
saking her  at  such  a  time  ;    and  to  marry  Miss 
Franklin,  while  honour,  humanity,  every  sacred 
law,  obliged  him  still  to  protect  and  support  Char- 
lotte, was  a  baseness  at  which  his  soul  shuddered. 
He  communicated  his  uneasiness  to  Belcour : 
it  was  the  very  thing  this  pretended  friend  had 
wished.     ■  And  do  you  really,'  said  he  laughing, 
•hesitate  at  marrying  the  lovely  Julia,  and  be- 
coming master  of  her  fortune,  because  a  little, 
foolish,  fond  girl  chose  to  leave  her  friends  and' 
run  away  with  you  to  America  ?  Dear  Montra- 
ville act  more  like  a  man  of  sense ;  this  whining, 
pming  Charlotte,  who  occasions  you  so  much 
uneasiness,   would  have  eloped  with  somebody 
else  if  she  had  not  with  you.' 

•  Would  to  heaven,'  said  Montraville, c  I  had 
never  seen  her;  my  regard  for  her  was  but  the 
momentary  passion  of  desire,  but  I  feel  I  shall 
love  and  revere  Julia  Franklin  as  long  as  Hive; 
yet  to  leave  poor  Charlotte  in  her  present  situa- 
tion would  be  cruel  beyond  description.' 

'Oh  my  good  sentimental  friend,'  said  Bel- 
cour, '  do  you  imagine  no  body  has  a  right  to 
provide  for  the  brat  but  yourself?' 

Montraville  started.  '  Sure,'  said  he,  you  can- 
not mean  to  insinuate  that  Charlotte  is  false.' 
*  I  do  not  insinuate  it,'  said  belcour, « I  know  it.* 
Montraville  turned  pale  as  ashes.  '  Then  there 
is  no  faith  in  woman,'  said  he. 

'While  I  thought  you  attached  to  her,'  said 
iJeicour,  with  an  air  of  indifference,  '  I  never 
wished  to  make  you  uneasy  by  mentioning  her 
perfidy,  but  aj»  J  know  you  love  and  are  beloved 


96 

}by  Miss  Franklin,  I  was  determined  not  ttffet 
these  foolish  scruples  of  honour  step  between 
you  and  happiness,  or  your  tenderness  for  the 
peace  of  a  perfidious  girl  prevent  your  uniting 
yourself  to  a  woman  of  honour.' 

4  Good  heavens  !'  said  Montraville,  '  what 
poignant  reflections  does  a  man  endure  who  sees 
a  lovely  woman  plunged  in  infamy,  and  is  con- 
scious he  was  her  first  seducer ;  but  are  you  cer- 
tain of  what  you  say,  Belcour  ?' 

*  So  far,'  replied  he,  c  that  I  myself  have  re- 
ceived advances  from  her,  which  I  would  not 
take  advantage  of,  out  of  regard  to  you ;  but 
hang  it,  think  no  more  about  her.  I  dined  at 
Franklin's  to-day,  and  Julia  bid  me  seek  and 
bring  you  to  tea ;  so  come  along,  my  lad,  make 
good  use  of  opportunity,  and  seize  the  gifts  of 
fortune  while  they  are  within  your  reach.' 

Montraville  was  too  much  agitated  to  pass  a 
happy  evening  even  in  the  company  of  Julia 
Franklin  ;  he  determined  to  visit  Charlotte  ear- 
ly the  next  morning,  tax  her  with  her  falsehood, 
and  take  an  everlasting  leave  of  her ;  but  when 
the  morning  came,  he  was  commanded  on  duty, 
and  for  six  weeks  was  prevented  from  putting 
his  design  in  execution.  At  length  he  found  an 
hour  to  spare,  and  walked  out  to  spend  it  with 
Charlotte  ;  it  was  near  four  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon when  he  arrived  at  her  cottage ;  she  was 
not  in  the  parlour,  and  without  calling  the  ser- 
vant, he  walked  up  stairs,  thinking  to  find  her 
in  her  bed  room.  He  opened  the  door,  and  the 
first  object  that  met  his  eyes  was  Charlotte  asleep 
on  the  bed,  and  Bekour  by  her  side. 


9T 

1  Death  and  distraction,'  said  he,  stamping, 
*  this  is  too  much.  Rise,  villain,  and  defend 
yourself.  Belcour  sprang  from  the  bed.  The 
noise  awoke  Charlotte ;  terrified  at  the  furious 
appearance  of  Montraville,  and  seeing  Belcour 
with  him  in  the  chamber,  she  caught  hold  of  his 
arm  as  he  stood  by  the  bed  side,  and  eagerly 
asked  what  was  the  matter. 

'Treacherous,  infamous  girl/  said  he, 'can 
you  ask  ?  How  came  he  here?'  pointing  to  Bel- 
cour. 

'  As  heaven  is  my  witness,'  replied  she,  weep- 
ing, '  1  do  not  know ;  I  have  not  seen  him  these 
three  weeks.' 

'  Then  you  confess  he  sometimes  visits  you  ?? 

'  He  came  sometimes  by  your  desire.' 

4  'Tis  false ;  I  never  desired  him  to  come,  and 
you  know  I  did  not ;  but  mark  me,  Charlotte, 
from  this  instant  our  connection  is  at  an  end. 
Let  Belcour,  or  any  other  of  your  favoured  lov- 
ers, take  you  and  provide  for  you;  I  have  done 
with  you  forever.' 

He  was  then  going  to  leave  her ;  but  starting 
wildly  from  her  bed,  she  threw  herself  on  her 
knees  before  him,  protesting  her  innocence  and 
entreating  him  not  to  leave  her.  '  Oh  Montra- 
ville,' said  she,  '  kill  me,  for  pity's  sake  kill  me, 
but  do  not  doubt  my  fidelity.  Do  not  leave  me 
in  this  horrid  situation ;  for  the  sake  of  your 
unborn  child,  oh !  spurn  qpt  the  wretched  mo- 
ther from  you.' 

'  Charlotte,'  said  he,  with  a  firm  voice, *  I  shall 
take  care  that  neither  you  nor  your  child  wan 
any  thing  in  the  approaching  painful  hour;  bu 


98 

we  meet  no  more.'  He  then  endeavoured  to 
raise  her  from  the  ground,  but  in  vain ;  she  clung 
about  his  knees,  entreating  him  to  believe  her 
innocent,  and  conjuring  Belcour  to  clear  up  the 
dreadful  mystery. 

Belcour  cast  on  Montraville  a  smile  of  con- 
tempt ;  it  irritated  him  almost  to  madness ;  he 
broke  from  the  feeble  arms  of  the  distressed  girl ; 
she  shrieked  and  fell  prostrate  on  the  floor. 

Montraville  instantly  left  the  house  and  re- 
turned hastily  to  the  city. 


CHAP.  XXIV. 

Mystery  developed, 

UNFORTUNATELY  for  Charlotte,  a- 
bout  three  weeks  before  this  unfortunate  rencon- 
tre, Major  Beauchamp  being  ordered  to  Rhode- 
Island,  his  lady  had  accompanied  him,  so  that 
Charlotte  was  deprived  of  her  friendly  advice 
and  consoling  society.  The  afternoon  on  which 
Montraville  had  visited  her,  she  had  found  her- 
self languid  and  fatigued,  and  after  making  a 
very  slight  dinner,  had  lain  down  to  endeavour 
to  recruit  her  exhausted  spirits,  and,  contrary  to 
her  expectations,  had  fallen  asleep.  She  had 
not  long  been  lain  down,  when  Belcour  arrived, 
for  he  took  every  opportunity  of  visiting  her, 
and  striving  to  awaken  her  resentment  against 
Montraville.  He  inquired  of  the  servant  where 
her  mistress  was,  and  being  told  she  was  asleep, 
took  up  a  book  to  amuse  himself;  having  sat  a 


99 

few  minutes,  he  by  chance  cast  his  eye  towards 
the  road,  and  saw  Montraville  approaching;  he 
instantly  conceived  the  diabolical  scheme  of  ru- 
ining the  unhappy  Charlotte  in  his  opinion  for- 
ever. He  therefore  stole  softly  up  stairs,  and 
laying  himself  by  her  side  with  the  greatest  pre- 
caution, for  fear  she  should  awake,  was  in  that 
situation  discovered  by  his  credulous  friend. 

When  Montraville  spurned  the  weeping  Char- 
lotte from  him,  and  left  her  almost  disti  acted 
with  terror  and  despair,  Belcour  raised  her  from 
the  floor,  and  leading  her  down  stairs,  assumed 
the  part  of  a  tender  consoling  friend  :  she  listen- 
ed to  the  arguments  he  advanced  with  apparent 
composure  ;  but  this  was  only  the  calm  of  a  mo- 
ment ;  the  remembrance  of  Montraville's  recent 
cruelty  again  rushed  upon  her  mind  ;  she  push*- 
ed  him  from  her  with  some  violence,  and  cry- 
ing, fc  Leave  me,  Sir,  I  beseech  you  leave  me, 
for  much  I  fear  you  have  been  the  cause  of  my 
fidelity  being  suspected  ;  go,  leave  me  to  the  ac- 
cumulated miseries  my  own  imprudence  has 
brought  upon  me.' 

She  then  left  him  with  precipitation,  and  retir- 
ing to  her  own  apartment,  threw  herself  on  the 
bed,  and  gave  vent  to  an  agony  of  grief,  which 
it  is  impossible  to  describe. 

It  now  occurred  to  Belcour  that  she  might 
possibly  write  to  Montraville,  and  endeavour  to 
convince  him  of  her  innocence ;  he,  well  aware 
of  her  pathetic  remonstrances,  and  sensible  of 
the  tenderness  of  Montraville's  heart,  he  resolv- 
ed to  prevent  any  letters  ever  reaching  him ;  he 
therefore  called  the  servant,  and,  by  the  power- 


100 

ful  persuasion  of  a  bribe,  prevailed  with  her  to 
promise  whatever  letters  her  mistress  might 
write  should  be  sent  to  him.  He  then  left  a  po- 
lite tender  note  for  Charlotte,  and  returned  to 
New-York.  His  first  business  was  to  seek 
Montraville,  and  endeavour  to  convince  him 
that  what  had  happened  would  ultimately  tend 
to  his  happiness  :  he  found  him  in  his  apartment, 
solitary,  pensive,  and  wrapped  in  disagreeable 
reflections. 

'Why,  how  now,  whining,  pining  lover?'  said 
he,  clapping  him  on  the  shoulder.  Montraville 
started ;  a  momentary  flush  of  resentment  cross- 
ed his  cheek,  but  instantly  gave  place  to  a  death- 
like paleness,  occasioned  by  painful  remem- 
brance— remembrance  awakened  by  that  moni- 
tor, which,  though  we  may  in  vain  endeavour, 
we  can  never  entirely  silence. 

'Belcour,'  said  he,  'you  have  injured  me  in 
a  tender  point.' 

'  Prithee,  Jack,'  replied  Belcour, '  do  not  make 
a  serious  matter  of  it ;  how  could  I  refuse  the 
girl's  advances  ?  and  thank  heaven  she  is  not 
your  wife.' 

J  True,'  said  Montraville  ;  '  but  she  was  inno- 
cent when  I  first  knew  her.  It  was  I  seduced 
her,  Belcour.  Had  it  not  been  for  me,  she  had 
still  been  virtuous  and  happy  in  the  affection  and 
protection  of  her  family.' 

'  Pshaw,'  replied  Belcour,  laughing,  '  if  you 
had  not  taken  advantage  oi  her  easy  nature,  some 
other  would,  and  where  is  the  difference,  pray  ? 

4 1  wish  I  had  never  seen  her,'  cried  he  pas- 
sionately, and  starting  from  his  seat.     *  Oh  that 


ioi  9 

cursed  French  woman,'  added  he  with  vehe- 
mence ;  '  had  it  not  been  for  her,  I  might  have 
been  happy—-'     He  paused. 

4  With  Julia  Franklin,'  said  Belcour.  The 
name  like  a  sudden  spark  of  electric  fire,  seem- 
ed for  a  moment  to  suspend  his  faculties — for  a 
moment  he  was  transfixed ;  but  recovering,  he 
caught  Belcour's  hand,  and  cried — *  Stop  !  stop  ! 
I  beseech  you,  name  not  the  lovely  Julia  and 
the  wretched  Montraville  in  the  same  breath.  I 
am  a  seducer,  a  mean,  ungenerous  seducer  of 
unsuspecting  innocence.  1  dare  not  hope  that 
purity  like  her's  would  stoop  to  unite  itself  with 
black,  premeditated  guilt;  yet  by  heavens  I 
swear,  Belcour,  I  thought  I  loved  the  lost,  aban- 
doned Charlotte  till  I  saw  Julia— I  thought  I 
never  could  forsake  her ;  but  the  heart  is  deceit- 
ful, and  I  now  plainly  discriminate  between  the 
impulse  of  a  youthful  passion,  and  the  pure  flame 
of  disinterested  affection.' 

At  that  instant,  Julia  Franklin  passed  the 
window,  leaning  on  her  uncle's  arm.  She  curt- 
sied as  she  passed,  and,  with  a  bewitching  smile 
of  modest  cheerfulness,  cried — 'do  you  bury 
yourselves  in  the  house  this  fine  evening,  gents  ?' 
There  was  something  in  the  voice,  the  manner, 
the  look,  that  was  altogether  irresistible.  '  Per- 
haps she  wishes  my  company,'  said  Montraville, 
mentally,  as  he  snatched  up  his  hat :  '  if  I  thought 
she  loved  me,  I  would  confess  my  errors  and 
trust  to  her  generosity  to  pity  and  pardon  me.' 
He  soon  overtook  her,  and  offering  her  his  arm, 
they  sauntered  to  pleasant,  but  unfrequented 
walks.  Belcour  drew  Mr.  Franklin  on  one  side 
1-2 


*  102 

and  entered  into  a  political  discourse — they 
walked  faster  than  the  young  people,  and  Bel- 
cour,  by  some  means,  contrived  entirely  to  lose 
sight  of  them.  It  was  a  fine  evening,  in  the  be- 
ginning of  autumn ;  the  last  remains  of  day  light 
streaked  the  western  sky ;  while  the  moon,  with 
pale  and  virgin  lustre,  in  the  room  of  gorgeous 
gold  and  purple,  ornamented  the  canopy  of  hea- 
ven with  silver,  fleecy  clouds,  which  now  and 
then  half  hid  her  lovely  face,  and  by  partly  con- 
cealing, heightened  every  beauty ;  the  zephyrs 
whispered  softly  through  the  trees,  which  now 
began  to  shed  their  leafy  honours  ;  a  solemn  si- 
lence reigned  ;  and  to  a  happy  mind,  an  evening 
such  as  this  would  give  serenity,  and  calm  unruf- 
fled pleasure  ;  but  to  Montraville,  while  it  suited 
the  turbulence  of  his  passions,  it  brought  increase 
of  melancholy  reflections.  J  ulia  was  leaning  on 
his  arm ;  he  took  her  hand  in  his,  and  pressing 
it  tenderly,  sighed  deeply,  but  continued  silenu 
Julia  was  embarrassed ;  she  wished  to  break  a 
silence  so  unaccountable,  but  was  unable.  She 
loved  Montraville,  she  saw  he  was  unhappy,  and 
wished  to  lcnow  the  cause  of  his  uneasiness,  but 
that  innate  modesty  which  nature  has  implanted 
in  the  female  breast,  prevented  her  inquiring. 
i  I  am  bad  company,  Miss  Franklin,'  said  he,  at 
last  recollecting  himself,  'but  I  have  met  with 
something  to-day  which  has  greatly  distressed 
me,  and  I  cannot  shake  off  the  disagreeable  im- 
pression it  has  made  on  my  mind.' 

1 1  am  sorry,'  she  replied,  4  that  you  have  any 
cause  of  inquietude.  I  am  sure  if  you  were  as 
happy  as  you  deserve,  and  as  aH  your  friends 


103 

wish  you  '■■  '  she  hesitated.  '  And  might  I,' 
replied  he  with  some  animation,  *  presume  to 
rank  the  amiable  Julia  in  that  number  V 

4  Certainly,'  said  she,  4  the  service  you  have 
rendered  me,  the  knowledge  of  your  worth,  all 
combine  to  make  me  esteem  you.' 

4  Esteem,  my  lovely  Julia,'  said  he  passion- 
ately, 4  is  but  a  poor  cold  word.  I  would,  if  I 
dared,  if  I  thought  I  merited  your  attention— 
but  no,  I  must  not — honour  forbids.  I  am  be- 
neath your  notice,  Julia  ;  I  am  miserable*  and 
cannot  hope  to  be  otherwise.' 

4  Alas  !'  said  Julia, * 1  pity  you.' 

*  Oh  thou  condescending  charmer,'  said  he, 
c  how  that  sweet  word  cheers  my  sad  heart.  In- 
deed if  you  knew  all,  you  would  pity  me  :  but 
at  the  same  time  I  fear  you  would  despise  me.' 

Just  then  they  were  again  joined  by  Mr. 
Franklin  and  Belcour.  It  had  interrupted  an 
interesting  discourse.  They  found  it  impossi- 
ble to  converse  on  indifferent  subjects,  and  pro- 
ceeded home  in  silence.  At  Mr.  Franklin's 
door,  Montraville  again  pressed  Julia's  hand, 
and  faintly  articulating  '  good  night,'  retired  to 
his  lodgings  dispirited  and  wretched,  from  a  con- 
sciousness that  he  deserved  not  the  affection  with 
which  he  plainly  saw  he  was  honoured. 


CHAP.  XXV. 

Reception  of  a  letter. 

*  AND  where  is  our  poor  Charlotte  ?'  said 
Mr.  Temple,  one  evening  as  the  cold  blasts  of 
autumn  whistled  rudely  over  the  heatbf  and  the 


104 

yellow  appearance  of  the  distant  wood  spoke  the 
near  approach  of  winter.  In  rain  the  cheerful 
fire  blazed  on  the  hearth,  in  vain  was  he  sur- 
rounded by  all  the  comforts  of  life ;  the  parent 
was  still  alive  in  his  heart  ;  and  when  he 
thought  that  perhaps  his  once  darling  child  was 
ere  this  exposed  to  all  the  miseries  of  want  in  a 
distant  land,  without  a  friend  to  soothe  and  com* 
fort  her,  without  the  benignant  look  of  compas- 
sion to  cheer,  or  the  angelic  voice  of  pity  to 
pour  the  balm  of  consolation  on  her  wounded 
heart ;  when  he  thought  of  this,  his  whole  soul 
dissolved  in  tenderness  ;  and  while  he  wiped  the 
tear  of  anguish  from  the  eye  of  his  patient,  un- 
complaining Lucy,  he  struggled  to.  suppress  the 
sympathetic  drop  that  started  in  his  own.  '  Oh, 
my  poor  girl,'  said  Mrs.  Temple,  'how  must 
she  be  altered,  else  surely  she  would  have  re- 
lieved our  agonizing  minds  by  one  line,  to  say 
she  lived — to  say  she  had  not  quite  forgotten  the 
parents  who  idolized  her.* 

'  Gracious  heaven !'  said  Mr.  Temple,  start- 
ing from  his  seat;  'who  would  wish  to  be  a  fa- 
ther, to  experience  the  agonizing  pangs  inflicted 
on  a  parent's  heart  by  the  ingratitude  of  a  child  !' 
Mrs.  Temple  wept ;  her  father  took  her  hand ; 
he  would  have  said,  'be  comforted,  my  child,* 
but  the  words  died  on  his  tongue.  The  sad  si- 
lence that  ensued  was  interrupted  by  a  loud  rap 
at  the  door,  in  a  moment  a  servant  entered  with 
a  letter  in  his  hand. 

Mrs.  Temple  took  it  from  him ;  she  cast  her 
eyes  on  the  superscription  ;  she  knew  the  writ- 
ing.    '  'Tis  Charlotte,'  said  she,  eagerly  break- 


105 

ing  the  seal,  c  she  has  not  quite  forgotten  us,5 
But  before  she  had  half  gone  through  the  con- 
tents, a  sudden  sickness  seized  her ;  she  grew 
cold  and  giddy,  and  putting  it  into  her  husband's 
hand,  she  cried,  l  Read  it,  I  cannot.'  Mr.  Tem- 
ple attempted  to  read  it  aloud,  but  frequently 
paused  to  give  vent  to  his  tears.  *  My  poor  de- 
luded child,'  said  he,  when  he  had  finished. 

1  Oh,  shall  we  not  forgive  the  poor  penitent  I9 
•said  Mrs.  Temple.  *  We  must,  we  will,  my  lovej 
she  is  willing  to  return,  and  it  is  our  duty  to  re- 
ceive her.' 

*  Father  of  mercy !'  said  Mr.  Eldridge,  rais- 
ing his  clasped  hands, l  let  me  but  live  once  more 
to  see  the  dear  wanderer  restored  to  her  afflicted 
parents,  and  take  me  from  this  world  of  sorrow 
whenever  it  seemeth  best  to  thy  wisdom.' 

4  Yes,  we  will  receive  her,'  said  Mr.  Temple, 
*  we  will  endeavour  to  heal  her  wounded  spirit, 
and  speak  peace  and  comfort  to  her  agitated 
soul.  I  will  write  to  her  to  return  immediately.' 

*  Oh !'  said  Mrs.  Temple,  *  I  would,  if  possi- 
ble, fly  to  her  support,  and  cheer  the  dear  suf- 
ferer in  the  approaching  hour  of  distress,  and 
tell  her  how  nearly  penitence  is  allied  to  virtue. 
Cannot  we  go  and  conduct  her  home,  my 
love  ?'  continued  she,  laying  her  hand  on  his 
arm. — 'My  father  will  surely  forgive  our  ab- 
sence if  we  go  to  bring  home  his  darling.' 

*  You  cannot  go,  my  Lucy,'  said  Mr.  Temple ; 
4  the  delicacy  of  your  frame  would  but  poorly 
sustain  the  fatigue  of  a  long  voyage ;  but  I  will 
go  and  bring  the  gentle  penitent  to  your  arms ; 
we  may  still  see  many  years  of  happiness.* 


106 

The  struggle  in  the  bosom  of  Mrs.  Temple 
between  maternal  and  conjugal  tenderness  was 
long  and  painful.  At  length  the  former  tri- 
umphed, and  she  consented  that  her  husband 
should  set  forward  to  New- York  by  the  first  op- 
portunity; she  wrote  to  her  Charlotte  in  the 
tenderest,  most  consoling  manner,  and  looked 
forward  to  the  happy  hour,  when  she  should 
again  embrace  her,  with  the  most  animated  hope. 


CHAP.  XXVI. 

What  might  be  expected* 

IN  the  meantime,  the  passion  Montraville 
had  conceived  for  Julia  Franklin  daily  increas- 
ed, and  he  saw  evidently  how  much  he  was  be- 
loved by  that  amiable  girl ;  he  was  likewise 
strongly  prepossessed  with  an  idea  of  Charlotte's 
perfidy.  What  wonder  then  if  he  gave  himself 
up  to  the  delightful  sensation  which  pervaded 
his  bosom  ;  and  finding  no  obstacle  arise  to  op- 
pose his  happiness,  he  solicited  and  obtained  the 
hand  of  Julia.  A  few  days  before  his  marriage 
he  thus  addressed  Belcour. : 

*  Though  Charlotte,  by  her  abandoned  con- 
duct, has  thrown  herself  from  my  protection,  I 
still  hold  myself  bound  to  support  her  till  reliev- 
ed from  her  present  condition,  and  also  to  pro- 
vide for  the  child.  I  do  not  intend  to  see  her 
again,  but  I  will  place  a  sum  of  money  in  your 
hands,-  which  will  amply  supply  her  with  every 
convenience ;    but  should  she  require  more,  let 


107  ft 

ish  Jl 


her  have  it,  and  I  will  see  it  repaid.  I  wis! 
could  prevail  on  the  poor  deluded  girl  to  return 
to  her  friends ;  she  was  an  only  child,  and  I 
make  no  doubt  but  that  they  would  joyfully  re- 
ceive her ;  it  would  shock  me  greatly  to  see  her 
henceforth  leading  a  life  of  infamy ;  as  I  should 
always  accuse  myself  of  being  the  primary  cause 
of  all  her  errors.  If  she  should  choose  to  re- 
main under  your  protection,  be  kind  to  her,  Bel- 
cour,  I  conjure  you.  Let  no^  satiety  prompt  you 
to  treat  her  in  such  a  manner  as  may  drive  her 
to  actions  which  necessity  might  urge  her  to, 
while  her  better  reason  disapproves  them  ;  she 
shall  never  want  a  friend  while  I  live,  but  I  ne- 
ver more  desire  to  behold  her;  her  presence 
would  be  always  painful  to  me,  and  a  glance 
from  her  eye  would  call  the  blush  of  conscious 
guilt  into  my  cheek. 

1 1  will  write  a  letter  to  her,  which  you  many 
deliver  when  I  am  gone,  as  I  shall  go  to  St,  Eus- 
tatia  the  day  after  my  union  with  Julia,  who  will 
accompany  me.' 

Belcour  promised  to  fulfil  the  request  of  his 
friend,  though  nothing  was  farther  from  his  in- 
tentions, than  the  least  design  of  delivering  the 
letter,  or  making  Charlotte  acquainted  with  the 
provision  Montraville  had  made  for  her ;  he 
was  bent  on  the  complete  ruin  of  the  unhappy 
girl,  and  supposed  by  reducing  her  to  an  entire 
dependence  on  him,  to  bring  her  by  degress  to 
consent  to  gratify  his  ungenerous  passion. 

The  evening  before  the  day  appointed  for  the 
nuptials  of  Montraville  and  Julia,  the  former 
retired  early  to  his  apartment  j  and  ruminating 


108 

on  the  past  scenes  of  his  life,  suffered  the  keen- 
est remorse  in  the  remembrance  of  Charlotte's 
seduction.  4  Poor  girl/  said  he,  c  I  will  at  least 
write  and  bid  her  adieu ;  I  will  too  endeavour 
to  awaken  that  love  of  virtue  in  her  bosom  which 
her  unfortunate  attachment  to  me  has  extin- 
guished.7 He  took  up  the  pen  and  began  to 
write,  but  words  were  denied  him.  How  could 
he  address  the  woman  whom  he  had  seduced, 
and  whom,  though  h$  thought  unworthy  his  ten- 
derness, he  was  about  to  bid  adieu  forever  ?— 
How  should  he  tell  her  he  was  going  to  abjure 
her  to  enter  into  the  most  indissoluble  ties  with 
another,  and  that  he  could  not  even  own  the  in- 
fant which  she  bore  as  his  child  ?  Several  letters 
were  begun  and  destroyed ;  at  length  he  com- 
pleted the  following ; 

To  Charlotte. 

"  Though  I  have  taken  up  my  pen  to  address 
you,  my  poor  injured  girl,  I  feel  I  am  inade- 
quate to  the  task ;  yet,  however  painful  the  en- 
deavour, I  could  not  resolve  upon  leaving  you 
forever  without  one  kind  line  to  bid  you  adieu* 
to  tell  you  how  my  heart  bleeds  at  the  remem- 
brance of  what  you  was,  before  you  saw  the  hat- 
ed Montraviile.  Even  now,  imagination  paints 
the  scene,  when  torn  by  contending  passions, 
when  struggling  between  love  and  duty,  you 
fainted  in  my  arms,  and  I  lifted  you  into  the 
chaise  ;  I  see  the  agony  of  your  mind,  when,  re* 
covering,  you  found  yourself  on  the  road  to 
Portsmouth — but  how,  my  gentle  girl,  how  could 
jfou,  when  so  justly  impressed  with  the  value  o 


109 

virtue,  how  could  you,  when  loving  as  I  thought 
you  loved  me,  yield  to  the  solicitations  of  Bel- 
cour? t 

4  Oh,  Charlotte  !  conscience  tells  me  it  was  T, 
villain  that  I  am,  who  first  taught  you  the  allure- 
ments of  guilty  pleasure  ;  it  was  I  who  dragged 
you  from  the  calm  repose  which  innocence  and 
virtue  ever  enjoy ;  and  can  I,  dare  I  tell  you,  it 
was  not  love  prompted  to  the  horrid  deed  !  No, 
thou  dear  fallen  angel,  believe  your  repentant 
Montraville,  when  he  tells  you,  the  man  who 
truly  loves,  will  never  betray  the  object  of  his 
affection.  Adieu,  Charlotte ;  could  you  still 
find  charms  in  a  life  of  unoffending  innocence, 
return  to  your  parents ;  you  shall  never  want 
the  means  of  support  both  for  yourself  and 
child.  Oh,  gracious  heaven  J  may  that  child  be 
entirely  free  from  the  vices  of  its  father  and  the 
weakness  of  its  mother. 

'To-morrow but  no,   I   cannot  tell   you 

what  to-morrow  will  produce  ;  Belcour  will  in- 
form you :  he  also  has  cash  for  you,  which  I  be 5 
you  will  ask  for  whenever  you  may  want  it. 
Once  more  adieu  ;  believe  me,  could  I  hear  you 
was  returned  to  your  friends,  and  enjoying  that 
tranquility  of  which  I  robbed  you,  I  should  be 
as  completely  happy  as  even  you,  in  your  fond- 
est hours,  could  wish  me  ;  but  till  then,  a  gloo;a 
will  obscure  the  brightest  prospects  of 

MONTRAVILLE.' 

After  he  had  sealed  this  letter,  he  threw  him- 
self oa  the  bed,  and  enjoyed  a  few  hours  repose. 
Early  in  the  morning   Belcour  tappri  at  tyJ 

K  • 


110 

door ;    he  arose  hastily,  and  prepared  to  meet 
his  Julia  at  the  altar. 

fcThis  is  the  letter  to  Charlotte,'  said  he,  giv- 
ing it  to  Belcour;  *take  it  to  her  when  we  are 
gone  to  Eustatia ;  and  I  conjure  you,  my  dear 
friend,  not  to  use  any  sophistical  arguments  to 
prevent  her  return  to  virtue,  but  should  she  in- 
cline that  way,  encourage  her  in  the  thought, 
and  assist  her  to  put  her  design  in  execution.' 


CHAP.  XXVII. 

Pensive  she  mourn'd,  and  hung  her  languid  head. 
Like  a  fair  lilly  overcharged  with  dew. 

CHARLOTTE  had  now  been  left  almost 
three  months  a  prey  to  her  own  melancholy  re- 
flections— sad  companions  indeed  ;  nor  did  any 
one  break  in  upon  her  solitude  but  Belcour,  who 
once  or  twice  called  to  inquire  after  her  health, 
and  tell  her  he  had  in  vain  endeavoured  to  bring 
]M ontraville  to  hear  reason  ;  and  once,  but  only 
once,  was  her  mind  cheered  by  the  receipt  of 
an  affectionate  letter  from  Mrs.  B^auchamp. 
Often  had  she  written  to  her  perfidious  seducer, 
and  with  the  most  persuasive  eloquence  endea- 
voured to  convince  him  of  her  innocence  ;  but 
these  letters  were  never  suffered  to  reach  the  { 
hand  of  Montraville,  or  they  must,  though  on 
the  very  eve  of  marriage,  have  prevented  his 
deserting  the  wretched  girl.  Real  anguish  of 
heart  had  in  a  great  measure  faded  her  charms, 
her  cheeks  were  pale  for  want  of  rest,  and  her 


Ill 

eyes,  by  frequent,  indeed  almost  continued  weep- 
ing, were  sunk  and  heavy.  Sometimes  a  gieam, 
of  hope  would  play  about  her  heart  when  she 
thought  of  her  parents—  4  They  cannot  surely,' 
she  would  say,  4  refuse  to  forgive  me ;  or  should 
they  deny  their  pardon  to  me,  they  will  not  hate 
my  innocent  infant  on  account  ol  its  mother's 
errors.'  How  often  did  the  poor  mourner  wish, 
for  the  consoling  presence  of  the  benevolent 
Mrs.  B-auchamp.  4  If  she  were  here,'  she 
would  cry, 4  she  would  certainly  comfort  me,  and 
soothe  the  distraction  of  my  soul.' 

She  was  sitting  one  afternoon,  wrapped  in 
these  melancholy  reflections,  when  she  was  in- 
terrupted by  the  entrance  ol  Belcour.  !  Great  as 
the  alteration  was  which  soi  row  had  made  on 
her  person,  she  was  still  interesting,  still  charm- 
ing; and  the  unhallowed  flame,  which  had  urg- 
ed Belcour  to  plant  dissention  between  her  and 
Montravilie,  still  raged  in  his  bosom  :  he  was 
determined,  if  possible,  to  make  her  his  mis- 
tress; nay,  he  had  even  conceived  the  diaboli- 
cal scheme  of  taking  her  to  New  York,  and 
making  her  appear  in  every  public  place  where 
it  was  likely  she  would  meet  Montravilie,  that 
he  might  be  a  witness  to  his  unmanly  triumph. 

When  he  entered  the  room  where  Charlotte 
was  sitting,  he  assumed  the  look  of  tender  con- 
solatory friendship.  4  And  how  does  my  lovely 
Charlotte  ?'  said  he,  taking  her  hand  ;  4  I  fear 
you  are  not  so  well  as  I  could  wish.' 

4 1  am  not  well,  Mr.  Belcour,'  said  she,  4  very 
far  from  it ;  but  the  pains  and  infirmities  ol  the 
body  I  could  easily   bear,  nay  submit  to  them 


112 

with  patience,  were  they  not  aggravated  by  the 
most  insupportable  anguish  of  my  mind.' 

'  You  are  not  happy,  Charlotte,'  said  he  with 
a  look  of  well  dissembled  sorrow. 

c  Alas  !'  replied  she,  mournfully,  shaking  her 
head,  *  how  can  I  be  happy,  deserted  and  for- 
saken as  I  am,  without  a  friend  of  my  own  sex 
to  whom  I  can  unburthen  my  full  heart,  my  fide- 
lity suspected  by  the  very  man  for  whom  I  have 
sacrificed  every  thing  valuable  in  life,  for  whom 
I  have  made  myself  a  poor  despised  creature, 
an  outcast  from  society,  an  object  only  of  con» 
tempt  and  pity.' 

4  You  think  too  meanly  cf  yourself,  Miss 
Temple;  there  is  no  one  who  would  dare  to 
treat  you  with  contempt ;  all  who  have  the  plea- 
sure of  knowing  you  must  admire  and  esteem. 
You  are  lonely  here,  my  dear  girl ;  give  me 
leave  to  conduct  you  to  New- York,  where  the 
agreeable  society  of  some  ladies,  to  whom  I  will 
introduce  you,  will  dispel  these  saoV  thoughts, 
and  I  shall  again  see  returning  cheerfulness  ani- 
mate those  lovely  features.' 

'  Oh  never  !  never  !'  cried  Charlotte,  emphati- 
cally ;  4  the  virtuous  part  of  my  sex  will  scorn 
me,  and  I  will  never  associate  with  infamy.  No, 
Belcour,  here  let  me  hide  my  shame  and  sor- 
row, here  let  me  spend  my  few  remaining  days 
in  obscurity,  unknown  and  unpitied,  her  let  me 
die  unlamented,  and  may  my  name  sink  to  ob- 
livion.' Here  her  tears  stopped  her  utterance. 
Belcour  was  awed  to  silence  ;  he  dared  not  in- 
terrupt her ;  and  after  a  moment's  pause  she 
proceeded — '  I  once  had  conceived  the  thought 


113 

of  going  to  New- York  to  seek  out  the  still  dear, 
though  cruel,  ungenerous  Montraville,  to  throw 
myself  at  his  feet,  and  entreat  his  compassion  ; 
heaven  knows,  not  for  myself,  if  I  am  no  longer 
beloved,  I  will  not  be  indebted  to  his  pity  to  re  i 
dress  my  injuries,  but  I  would  have  knelt  and 
entreated  him  not  to  forsake  my  poor  unborn-—* 
She  could  say  no  more  ;  a  crimson  glow  rushed 
over  her  cheeks,  and  covering  her  lace  with  her 
hands,  she  sobbed  aloud. 

Something  like  humanity  was  awakened  in 
Bt  Icour's  breast  by  this  pathetic  speech ;  he 
arose  and  walked  towards  the  window  ;  but  the 
selfish  passion  which  had  taken  possession  of 
his  heart  soon  stifled  these  finer  emotions ;  and 
he  thought  if  Charlotte  was  once  convinced  that 
she  had  no  longer  any  dependence  on  Montra- 
ville,  she  would  more  readily  throw  herself  on 
his  protection.  Determined,  therefore,  to  in- 
form her  of  all  that  happened,  he  again  resumed 
his  seat ;  and  finding  she  began  to  be  more  com- 
posed, inquired  if  she  had  ever  heard  from  Mon- 
traville since  the  unfortunate  rencontre  in  her 
bed-chamber. 

*  Ah,  no,'  said  she.  •  I  fear  I  shall  never  hear 
from  him  again.' 

*  I  am  greatly  of  your  opinion,*  said  Belcour, 
4  for  he  has  been  for  some  time  past  greatly  at- 
tached  ' 

At  the  word  •  attached'  a  death-like  paleness 
overspread  the  countenance  of  Charlotte,  but  she 
applied  to  some  hartshorn  which  stood  beside 
her,  and  Belcour  proceeded. 

4  He  has  been  for  some  time  past  greatly  »u 
K-2 


114 

tached  to  one  Miss  Franklin,  a  pleasing,  lively 
girl,  with  a  large  fortune.' 

*  She  may  be  richer,  may  be  handsomer,'  said 
Charlotte,  4  but  cannot  love  him  so  well.  Oh 
may  she  beware  of  his  art,  and  not  trust  him  so 
far  as  I  have  done.' 

*  He  addresses  her  publicly,'  said  he,  '  and  it 
is  rumoured  they  were  to  be  married  before  he 
sailed  for  Eustatia,  whither  his  company  is  or- 
dered.' 

*  Belcour,'  said  Charlotte,  seizing  his  hand, 
and  gazing  at  him  earnestly,  while  her  pale  lips 
trembled  with  convulsive  agony,  4tell  me,  and 
tell  me  truly,  I  beseech  you,  do  you  think  he  can 
be  such  a  villain  as  to  marry  another  woman, 
and  leave  me  to  die  with  want  and  miserj*in  a 
strange  land ! — Tell  me  what  you  think  ;  I  can 
bear  it  very  well;  I  will  not  shrink  from  the 
heaviest  stroke  of  fate  ;  I  have  deserved  my  af- 
flictions, and  I  will  endeavour  to  bear  them  as  I 
ought.' 

4 1  fear,'  said  Belcour,  *  he  can  be  that  villain.' 

*  Perhaps,'  said  she,  eagerly  interrupting  him, 
*  perhaps  he  is  married  already ;  come,  let  me 
know  the  worst,'  continued  she,  with  an  affect- 
ed look  of  composure,  'you  need  not  be  afraid, 
I  shall  not  send  the  unfortunate  lady  a  bowl  of 
poison.' 

4  Well,  then,  my  dear  girl,'  said  he,  deceived 
by  her  appearance,  4  they  were  married  on 
Thursday,  and  yesterday  morning  they  sailed 
for  Eustatia.' 

4  Married— gone— say  you,'  cried  she,  in  a 
distracted  accent,  'what!  without  a. last  fare- 


115 

well !  without  one  thought  on  my  unhappy  situ- 
ation !  Oh,  Montraville,  may  God  forgive  your 
perfidy  P  She  shrieked  and  Belcour  sprang  for- 
ward just  in  time  to  prevent  her  falling  to  the 
floor. 

Alarming  faintings  now  succeeded  each  other 
and  she  was  conveyed  to  bed,  from  whence  she 
earnestly  prayed  she  might  never  more  arise. 
Belcour  stayed  with  her  that  night,  and  in  the 
morning  found  her  in  a  high  fever.  The  fits  she 
had  been  seized  with  had  greatly  terrified  him  ; 
and  confined  as  she  now  was  to  a  bed  of  sick- 
ness, she  was  no  longer  an  object  of  desire ;  it 
is  true,  for  several  days  he  went  constantly  to 
see  her,  but  her  pale,  emaciated  appearance  dis- 
gusted him ;  his  visits  became  less  frequent. 
He  forgot  the  solemn  charge  given  him  by  Mon- 
traville ;  he  even  forgot  the  money  entrusted  to 
his  care  y  and,  (the  burning  blush  of  indigna- 
nation  and  shame  tinges  my  cheek  while  I  write* 
it,)  this  disgrace  to  humanity  and  manhood  at 
length  forgot  even  the  injured  Charlotte;  and, 
attracted  by  the  blooming  health  of  a  farmer's 
daughter,  whom  he  had  seen  in  his  frequent  ex- 
cursions to  the  country,  he  left  the  unhappy  girl 
to  sink  unnoticed  to  the  grave,  a  prey  to  sick- 
ness, grief  and  penury ;  while  he,  having  tri- 
umphed over  the  virtue  of  the  artless  cottager, 
rioted  in  all  the  intemperance  of  luxury  and  law- 
less pleasure. 


116 

CHAP.  XXVIII. 

A  trifling  retrospect. 

4  BLESS  my  heart !'  cries  my  young,  vola- 
tile  reader,  fc  I  shall  never  have  patience  to  get 
through  this  volume,  there  are  so  many  ahs  !  and 
ohs !  so  much  fainting,  tears  and  distress,  I  am 
sick  to  death  of  the  subject.'  My  dear,  cheer- 
ful, innocent  girl,  for  innocent  I  will  suppose 
you  to  be,  or  you  would  acutely  feel  the  woes  of 
Charlotte,  did  conscience  say,  thus  might  it  have 
been  with  mt*  had  not  providence  interposed  to 
snatch  me  from  destruction.  Therefore,  my 
lively,  innocent  girl,  I  must  request  your  pa- 
tience ;  I  am  writing  a  tale  of  truth  ;  1  mean  to 
write  it  to  the  heart;  but  if  perchance  the  heart 
is  rendered  impenetrable  by  unbounded  prospe- 
rity or  a  continuance  in  vice,  I  expect  not  my 
tale  to  please,  nay,  I  even  expect  it  will  be 
thrown  by  with  disgust.  But  softly,  my  gentle 
fair  one  ;  I  pray  you  throw  it  not  aside  till  you 
have  perused  the  whole;  mayhap  you  may  find 
something  therein  to  repay  you  for  the  trouble. 
Methinks  I  see  a  sarcastic  smile  sit  on  your 
countenance.  'And  what,'  cry  you, 4  does  the  con- 
ceited author  suppose  we  can  glean  from  these 
pages,  if  Charlotte  is  held  up  as  an  object  of 
terror,  to  prevent  us  from  falling  into  guilty  er- 
rors? Does  not  La  Rue  triumph  in  shame,  and 
by  adding  art  to  guilt,  obtain  the  affection  of  a 
worthy  man,  and  rise  to  a  station  where  she  is 
beheld  with  respect,  and  cheerfully  received  in- 
to all  companies  ?     What  then  is  the  moral  you 


.  **7 

would  inculcate  ?  Would  you  wish  us  to  think 
that  a  deviation  from  virtue,  if  covered  by  art 
and  hypocrisy,  is  not  an  object  of  detestation, 
but  on  the  contrary  >  shall  raise  us  to  fame  and 
honour?  while  the  napless  girl  who  falls  a  vic- 
tim to  her  too  great  sensibility,  shall  be  loaded 
with  ignominy  and  shame  ?'.  No,  my  fair  querist, 
I  mean  no  such  thing.  Remember  the  endea- 
vours of  the  wicked  are  often  suffered  to  pros- 
per, that  in  the  end  their  fall  may  be  attended 
with  more  bitterness  of  heart;  while  the  cup  of 
affliction  is  poured  out  for  wise  and  salutary 
ends,  and  they  who  are  compelled  to  drain  it, 
even  to  the  bitter  dregs,  often  find  comfort  at 
the  bottom  ;  the  tear  of  penitence  blots  their  of- 
fences from  the  book  of  fate,  and  they  rise  from 
the  heavy,  painful  trial,  purified  and  fit  for  a 
mansion  in  the  kingdom  of  eternity. 

Yes,  my  young  friends,  the  tear  of  compassion 
shall  fall  for  the  fate  of  Charlotte,  while  the 
name  of  La  Rue  shall  be  detested  and  despised. 
For  Charlotte,  the  soul  melts  with  sympathy ; 
for  La  Rue,  it  feels  nothing  but  hoiror  and  con- 
tempt. But  perhaps  your  gay  hearts  would  ra- 
ther follow  the  fortunate  Mrs.  Crayton  through 
the  scenes  of  pleasure  and  dissipation  in  which 
she  was  engaged,  than  listen  to  the  complaints 
and  miseries  of  Charlotte.  1  will  for  once  oblige 
you;  I  will  for  once  follow  her  to  midnight  re- 
vels, balls,  and  scenes  of  gaiety,  for  in  such  she 
was  constantly  engaged. 

1  have  said  her  person  was  lovely  ;  let  us  add, 
that  she  was  surrounded  by  splendour  and  af- 
fluence, and  she   must  know  but   little  of   the 


118 

world  who  can  wonder  (however  faulty  such  a 
woman's  conduct)  at  her  being  followed  by  the 
men,  and  her  company  courted  by  the  women  ; 
in  short,  Mrs.  Crayton  was  the  universal  fa- 
vourite ;  she  set  the  fashidtis,  she  was  toasted 
by  the  gentlemen,  and  copied  by  all  the  ladies. 
Colonel  Crayton  was  a  domestic  man.  Could 
he  be  happy  with  such  a  woman  ?  Impossible  I 
Remonstrance  was  vain :  he  might  as  well  have 
preached  to  the  winds,  as  endeavour  to  persuade 
her  from  any  action,  however  ridiculous,  on 
which  she  had  set  her  mind;  in  short,  after  a 
little  ineffectual  struggle,  he  gave  up  the  attempt, 
and  left  her  to  follow  the  bent  of  her  own  incli- 
nations: what  those  were,  I  think  the  reader 
must  have  seen  enough  of  her  character  to  form 
a  just  idea.  Among  the  number  who  paid  their 
devotions  at  her  shrine,  she  singled  one,  a  young 
Ensign,  of  mean  birth,  indifferent  education, 
and  weak  intellects.  How  such  a  man  came 
into  the  army,  we  hardly  know  to  account  for, 
and  how  he  afterwards  rose  to  posts  of  honour, 
is  likewise  strange  and  wonderful.  But  fortune 
is  blind,  and  so  are  those,  too  frequently,  who 
have  the  power  of  dispensing  her  favours  ;  else 
why  do  we  see  fools  and  knaves  at  the  very  top 
of  the  wheel,  while  patient  merit  sinks  to  the 
extreme  of  the  opposite  abyss  ?  But  we  may 
form  a  thousand  conjectures  on  this  subject,  and 
yet  never  hit  on  the  right.  Let  us,  therefore, 
endeavour  to  deserve  her  smiles,  and  whether 
we  succeed  or  not,  we  shall  feel  more  innate  sa- 
tisfaction than  thousands  of  those  who  bask  in 
the  sunshine  of  her  favour  unworthily.     But  to 


119 

return  to  Mrs.   Crayton This  young  man> 

whom  I  shall  distinguish  by  the  name  of  Cory- 
don,  was  the  reigning  favourite  of  her  heart. 
He  escorted  her  to  the  play,  danced  with  her  at 
every  ball,  and  when  indisposition  prevented 
her  going  out,  it  was  he  alone  who  was  permit- 
ted to  cheer  the  gloomy  solitude  to  which  she 
was  obliged  to  confine  herself.— Did  she  ever 
think  of  poor  Charlotte  ?... If  she  did,  my  dear 
Miss,  it  was  only  to  laugh  at  the  poor  girl's  want 
of  spirit  in  consenting  to  be  moped  up  in  the 
country,  while  Montraville  was  enjoying  all  the- 
pleasures  of  a  gay,  dissipated  city.  When  she 
heard  of  his  marriage,  she  smilingly  said,  *so 
there's  an  end  of  Madam  Charlotte's  hopes.  I 
wonder  who  will  take  her  now,  or  what  will  be- 
come of  the  little  affected  prude.' 

But  as  you  have  led  to  the  subject,  I  think 
we  may  as  well  return  to  the  distressed  Char- 
lotte, and  net,  like  the  unfeeling  Mrs.  Crayton, 
shut  our  hearts  to  the  call  of  humanity. 


CHAP.  XXIX. 

We  go  forward  again, 

THE  strength  of  Charlotte's  constitution 
combated  against  her  disorder,  and  she  began 
slowly  to  recover,  though  she  still  laboured  un- 
der violent  depression  of  spirits.  How  must 
that  depression  be  increased,  when,  upon  exam- 
ining her  little  store,  she  found  herself  reduced 
to  one  solitary  guinea,  and  that  during  her  ill* 


120 

ness  the  attendance  of  an  apothecary  and  nurse, 
together  with  .many  other  unavoidable  expenses, 
had  involved  her  in  debt,  from  which  she  saw 
no  method  of  extricating  herself.  As  to  the 
faint  hope  which  she  had  entertained  of  hearing 
from  and  being  relieved  by  her  parents,  it  now 
entirely  forsook  her,  for  it  was  above  four 
months  since  her  letter  was  despatched,  and  she 
had  received  no  answer.  She,  therefore,  ima- 
gined that  her  conduct  had  entirely  alienated 
their  affection  from  her,  or  broken  their  hearts, 
and  she  must  never  more  hope  to  receive  their 
blessing. 

Never  did  any  human  being  wish  for  death 
with  greater  fervency  nor  with  a  juster  cause ; 
yet  she  had  too  just  a  sense  of  the  duties  of  the 
christian  religion  to  put  a  period  to  her  own  ex- 
istence. '  I  have  but  to  be  patient  a  little  long- 
er,' she  would  cry,  c  and  nature,  fatigued  and 
fainting,  will  throw  off  this  heavy  load  of  mor- 
tality, and  I  shall  be  relieved  from  all  my  suf- 
ferings.' 

It  was  one  cold  stormy  day  in  the  latter  end 
of  December,  as  Charlotte  sat  by  a  handful  of 
fire,  the  low  state  of  her  finances  not  allowing 
her  to  replenish  her  stock  of  fuel,  and  prudence 
teaching  her  to  be  careful  of  what  she  had,  when 
she  was  surprised  by  the  entrance  of  the  farm- 
er's wife,  who,  without  much  ceremony,  seated 
herself  and  began  this  curious  harangue. 

4  I'm  come  to  see  if  as  how  you  can  pay  your 
rent,  because  as  how  we  hear  Captain  Montable 
is  gone  away,  and  its  fifty  to  one  if  he  be'ant 
killed  afore  he  conies  back  again ;  and  then  Miss, 


121 

or  Ma'am,  or  whatever  you  may  be,  as  I  was 
saying  to  my  husband,  where  are  Ave  to  look  for 
our  money  ?' 

This  was  a  stroke  altogether  unexpected  by 
Charlotte.  She  knew  so  little  of  the  ways  of 
the  world,  that  she  had  never  bestowed  a  thought 
on  the  payment  of  the  rent  of  the  house  ;  she 
knew,  indeed,  that  she  owed  a  good  deal,  but 
this  was  never  reckoned  among  the  others  ;  she 
was  thunderstruck  ;  she  hardly  knew  what  an- 
swer to  make,  yet  it  was  absolutely  necessary 
that  she  should  say  something;  and  judging  of 
the  gentleness  of  every  female  disposition  by 
her  own,  she  thought  the  best  way  to  interest 
the  woman  in  her  favour,  would  be  to  tell  her 
candidly  to  what  a  situation  she  was  reduced, 
and  what  little  probability  there  was  of  her  ever 
paying  any  body. 

Alas !  poor  Charlotte,  how  confirm!  was  her 
knowledge  of  human  nature,  or  shV  nvould  have 
been  convinced  that  the  only  way  to  ensure  the 
friendship  and  assistance  of  your  surrounding 
acquaintance  is  to  convince  them  you  do  not 
require  it,  for  when  once  the  petrifying  aspect  of 
distress  and  penury  appears,  whose  qualities, 
like  Medusa's  head,  can  change  to  stone  all  that 
look  upon  it;  when  once  this  gorgon  claims  ac- 
quaintance with  us,  the  phantom  of  friendship, 
that  before  courted  our  notice,  will  vanish  into 
unsubstantial  air,  and  the  whole  world  before  us 
appear  a  barren  waste.  Pardon  me,  ye  dear 
spirits  of  benevolence,  whose  benign  smiles  and 
cheerful-giving  hand  has  strewed  sweet  flowers 
on  many  a  thorny  path  through  which  my  way- 
Ju 


122 

ward  fate  forced  me  to  pass ;  think  not  that  i« 
condemning  the  unfeeling  texture  of  the  human 
heart,  I  forget  the  spring  from  whence  flow  all 
the  comforts  I  enjoy  ;  oh,  no !  I  look  up  to  you 
as  to  bright  constellations,  gathering  new  splen- 
dours from  the  surrounding  darkness.  But,  ah  ! 
while  I  adore  the  benignant  rays  that  cheered 
and  illuminated  my  heart,  I  mourn  that  their  in- 
fluence cannot  extend  to  all  the  sons  and  daugh- 
ters of  affliction. 

*  Indeed,  Madam,'  said  poor  Charlotte,  in  a 
tremulous  accent,  '  I  am  at  a  loss  what  to  do ; 
Montraville  placed  me  here,  and  promised  to 
defray  all  my  expenses ;  but  he  has  forgotten 
his  promise,  he  has  forsaken  me,  and  I  have  no 
friend  who  has  either  power  or  will  to  relieve 
me.  Let  me  hope,  as  you  see  my  unhappy  si- 
tuation, your  charity—' 

4  Charity  !'  cried  the  woman  impatiently,  in- 
terrupting her,  4  charity  indeed  ;  why  Mistress, 
Charity  begins  at  home,   and  I  have  seven  chil- 
dren at  home,  honest,  lawful  children,  and  it  is 
mv  duty  to  keep  them;  and  do  you  think  I  will 
give  away  my  property  to  a  nasty,  impudent 
hussv,  to  maintain  her  and  her  bastard  ?    an'  I 
was  saying  to  my  husband  the  other  day,  what 
will  this  world  come  to  ?  honest  women  are  no- 
thing now-a-days ;  while  the  harlotings  are  set 
up  for  fine  ladies,  and  look  upon  us  no  more  than 
the  dirt  they  walk  upon  ;  but  let  me  tell  you,  my 
fine  spoken  Ma'am,  I  must  have  my  money  ;  so 
seeing  as  how  you  can't  pay  it,  why  you  must 
troop,  and  leave  all  your  gimcracks  aid  fal  der 
rals  behind  vou.     I  don't  ask  you  for  no  more 


123 

nor  my  right,  and  nobody  shall  , dare  for  tp  ger 
for  to  hinder  me  from  it.' 

4  Oh  heavens,'  cried  Charlotte,  clasping  her 
hands.  *  what  will  become  of  me  !' 

*  Come  on  ye  !'  retorted  the  unfeeling  wretch  ; 
*  why  go  to  the  barracks  and  work  for  a  morsel 
of  bread  ;  wash  and  mend  the  soldier's  clothes, 
an'  cook  their  victuals,  and  not,  expect  to  live  in 
idleness  on  honest  people's  means.  Oh  I  wish  I 
could  see  the  day  when  all  such  cattle  were 
obliged  to  work  hard  and  eat  little ;  it's  only 
what  they  deserve.' 

4  Father  of  mercy,'  cried  Charlotte,  *  I  ac- 
knowledge thy  correction  just ;  but  prepare  me, 
I  beseech  thee,  for  the  portion  of  misery  thou 
mayst  please  to  lay  upon  me.' 

4  Well,'  said  the  woman,  4 1  shall  go  and  tell 
my  husband  as  how  you  can't  pay  ;  and  so,  d'ye 
see,  Ma'am,  get  ready  to  be  packing  away  this 
very  night,  for  you  should  not  stay  another  night 
in  this  house,  though  I  was  sure  you  would  lay 
in  the  street.' 

Charlotte  bowed  her  head  in  silence  ;  but  the 
anguish  of  her  heart  was  too  great  to  permit  her 
to  articulate  a  single  word. 


CHAP.  XXX. 

And  what  is  friendship  but  a  name, 

A  charm  that  lulls  to  sleep, 
A  shade  that  follows  wealth  and  tame, 

But  leaves  the  wretch  to  weep. 

WHEN  Charlotte  was  left  to  herself,  she 
began  to  think  wliat  course  she  must  take,  or  to 
whom  she  could  apply,  to  prevent  her  perishing 


124 

for  want,  or  perhaps  that,  very  night  falling  a 
victim  to  the  inclemency  of  the  season.  After 
many  perplexed  thoughts,  she  at  last  determin- 
ed to  set  out  for  New- York,  and  inquire  out 
Mrs.  Crayton,  from  whom  she  had  no  doubt 
but  she  would  obtain  immediate  relief,  as  soon 
as  her  distress  was  made  known  ;  she  had  no 
sooner  formed  this  resolution^  than  she  resolved 
immediately  to  put  it  in  execution  ;  she  there- 
fore wrote  the  following  little  billet  to  Mrs. 
Crayton,  thinking  if  she  should  nave  company 
with  her,  it  would  hg  better  to  send  it  in  than  to 
request  to  see  her. 

To  Mrsv^Crjlvton. 
Mqdam^  T^  '  - 

u  When  we  left  our  native  land,  that  dear  hap- 
py land  which  now  contains  all  that  is  dear  to 
the  wretched  Charlotte,  our  prospects  were  the 
same;  we  both,  pardon  me  Madam,  if  I  say, 
we  both  too  jeasily  followed  the  impulse  of  our 
treacherous  hearts,  and  trusted  our  happiness  on 
a  tempestuous  ocean,  where  mine  has  been 
wrecked  and  lost  forever :  you  have  been  more 
fortunate — you  are  united  to  a  man  of  honour 
and  humanity1 — united  by  the  most  sacred  ties, 
respected,  esteemed  and  admired,  and  surroun- 
ded by  innumerable  blessings,  of  which  I  am 
bereaved,  enjoying  those  pleasures  which  have 
fled  my  bosom  never  to  return.  Alas  !  sorrow 
and  deep  regret  have  taken  their  place.  Behold 
me,  Madam,  a  poor  forsaken  wanderer,  who  has 
not  where  to  lay  her  w£ary  head,  wherewith  to 
supply  the  wants  of  nature,  or  to  shield  her  from 
the  inclemency  of  the  weather.     To  you  I  sue, 


125 

to  you  I  look  for  pity  and  relief.  I  ask  not  to 
be  received  as  an  intimate  or  an  equal ;  .only  for 
charity's  sweet  sake  receive  me  into  your  hospi- 
table mansion,  allot  me  the  meanest  apartment 
in  it,  and  let  me  breathe  out  my  soul  in  prayers 
for  your  happiness;  I  cannot,  I  feel  I  cannot 
long  bear  up  under  the  accumulated  woes  that 
pour  in  upon  me ;  but  oh!  my  dear  Madam, 
for  the  love  of  heaven  suffer  me  not  to  expire 
in  the  street;  and  when  I  am  at  peace,  as  soon 
I  shall  be,  extend  your  compassion  to  my  help- 
less offspring,  should  jt  please  heaven  that  it 
should  survive  its  unhappy  mother.  A  gleam 
of  joy  breaks  in  upon  my  benighted  soul,  while 
-I  reflect  that  you  cannot,  will  not  refuse  your 
protection  to  the  heart-broken 

Charlotte." 
..When  Charlotte  had  finished  this  letter,  late 
as  it  was  in  the  afternoon,  and  though  the  snow 
began  to  fall  very  fast,  she  tied  up  *a  few  neces- 
saries which  she  had  prepared  against  her  ex- 
pected confinement,  and  terrified  lest  she  should 
again  be  exposed  to  the  insults  of  her  barbarous 
landlady,  more  dreadful  to  her  wounded  spirit 
than  either  storm  or  darkness,  she  set  forward 
for  New- York. 

It  may  be  asked  by  those,  who,  in  a  work  of 
this  kind,  love  to  cavil  at  every  trifling  omission, 
whether  Charlotte  did  not  possess  any  valuable 
of  which  she  could  have  disposed,  and  by  that 
means  have  supported  herself  till  Mrs.  Beau- 
champ's  return,  when  she  would  have  been  cer- 
tain of  receiving  every  tender  attention  which 
compassion  and  friendship  could  dictate;  but 
L-2 


126 

let  me  entreat  these  wise,  penetrating  gentlemen 
to  reflect,  that  when  Charlotte  left  England,  it 
was  in  such  haste  that  there  was  no  time  to  pur- 
chase any  thing  more  than  what  was  wanted  for 
immediate  use  on  the  voyage,  and  after  her  ar- 
rival at  New-York,  Montraville's  affection  soon 
began  to  decline,  so  that  her  whole  wardrobe 
consisted  of  only  necessaries,  and  as  to  baubles, 
with  which  fond  lovers  often  load  their  mis- 
tresses, she  possessed  not  one,  except  a  plain 
gold  locket,  of  small  value,  which  contained  a 
lock  of  her  mother's  hair,  and  which  the  great- 
est extremity  of  want  could  not  have  forced  her 
to  part  with. 

I  hope,  Sir,  your  prejudices  are  now  removed 
in  regard  to  the  probability  of  my  story  ?  Oh, 
they  are.  Well  then,  with  your  leave,  I  will 
proceed. 

The  distance  from  the  house  which  our  suf- 
fering heroine  occupied,  to  New-York,  was  not 
very  great ;  yet  the  snow  fell  so  fast,  and  the 
cold  so  intense,  that,  being  unable  from  her  situ- 
ation to  walk  quick,  she  found  herself  almost 
sinking  with  cold  and  fatigue  before  she  reach- 
ed the  town ;  her  garments,  which  were  merely 
suitable  to  the  summer  season,  being  an  undress 
robe  of  plain  white  muslin,  were  wet  through, 
and  a  thin  black  cloak  and  bonnet,  very  impro- 
per habiliments  for  such  a  climate,  but  poor- 
ly defended  her  from  the  cold.  In  this  situation 
she  reached  the  city,  and  inquired  of  a  foot  sol- 
dier, whom  she  met,  the  way  to  Col.  Crayton's. 

4  Bless  you,  my  sweet  lady,'  said  the  soldier, 
with  a  voice  and  look  of  compassion,  *  I  will 


Y27 

show  you  the  way  with  all  my  heart ;  but  if  you 
are  going  to  make  a  petition  to  Madam  Crayton, 
it  is  all  to  no  purpose,  I  assure  you;  if  you 
please,  I  will  conduct  you  to  Mr.  Franklin's ; 
though  Miss  Julia  is  married  and  gone  now,  yet 
the  old  gentleman  is  very  good.' 

*  Julia  Franklin  !'  said  Charlotte ;  * is  she  not 
married  to  Montraville  V 

'Yes,'  replied  the  soldier,  'and  may  God 
bless  them,  for  a  better  officer  never  lived,  he  is 
so  good  to  us  all ;  and  as  to  Miss  Julia,  all  the 
poor  folks  almost  worshipped  her.' 

4  Gracious  heaven  !'  cried  Charlotte,  '  is  Mon- 
traville unjust  to  none  but  me  V 

The  soldier  now  showed  her  Col.  Crayton's 
door,  and  with  a  beating  heart  she  knocked  for 
admission* 


CHAP.  XXXI.      * 

Subject  continued, 

WHEN  the  door  was  opened,  Charlotte, 
in  a  voice  rendered  scarcely  articulate,  through 
cold  and  the  extreme  agitation  of  her  mind,  de- 
manded whether  Mrs.  Crayton  was  at  home. 
The  servant  hesitated ;  he  knew  that  his  lady 
was  engaged  at  a  game  of  picquet  with  her  dear 
Corydon,  nor  could  he  think  she  would  like  to 
be  disturbed  by  a  person  whose  appearance  spoke 
her  of  so  little  consequence  as  Charlotte  ;  yet 
there  was  something  in  her  countenance  that 
rather  interested  him  in  her  favour,  and  he  said 
his  lady  was  engaged,  but  if  she  had  any  parti- 
cular message  he  would  deliver  it. 


128 

'Take  up  this  letter,'  said  Charlotte;  c tell 
her  the  unhappy  writer  of  it  waits  in  her  hall 
for  an  answer.' 

The  tremulous  accent,  the  tearful  eye,  must 
have  moved  any  heart  not  composed  of  adamant. 
The  man  took  the  letter  from  the  poor  supliant, 
and  hastily  ascended  the  staircase. 

4  A  letter,  Madam,'  said  he,  presenting  it  to 
his  lady;  *an  immediete  answer  is  required.' 

Mrs.  Crayton  glanced  her  eye  carelessly  over 
the  contents.  'What  stuff  is  this !'  cried  she 
haughtily;  'have  I  not  told  you  a  thousand 
times  that  I  will  not  be  plagued  with  beggars, 
and  petitions  from  people  one  knows  nothing 
about?  Go  tell  the  woman  I  can't  do  any  thing 
in  it.  I'm  sorry,  but  one  can't  relieve  every  body.' 

The  man  bowed,  and  heavily  returned  with 
this  chilling  message  to  Charlotte. 

4  Surely,'  said  she,  '  Mrs.  Crayton  has  not 
read  my  letter.  Go,  my  good  friend,  pray  go 
back  to  her;  tell  her  it  is  Charlotte  Temple  who 
requests  beneath  her  hospitable  roof  to  find  shel- 
ter from  the  inclemency  of  the  season.' 

4  Prithee,  don't  plague  me,  man,'  cried  Mrs* 
Crayton,  impatiently,  as  the  servant  advanced 
something  in  behalf  of  the  unhappy  girl.  I  tell 
you  I  don't  know  her.' 

4  Not  know  me!'  cried  Charlotte,  rushing  into 
the  room,  (for  she  had  followed  the  man  up 
stairs)  '  not  know  me  !  not  remember  the  ruined 
Charlotte  Temple,  who,  but  for  you,  perhaps 
might  still  have  been  innocent,  still  have  been 
happy.  Oh  !  La  Rue,  this  is  beyond  every  thing 
I  could  have  believed  possible.' 


129 

*  Upon  my  honour,  Miss/  replied  the  unfeel- 
ing woman,  with  the  utmost  effrontery,  '  this  is 
a  most  unaccountable  address  ;  it  is  beyond  my 
comprehension.  John,'  continued  she,  turning 
to  the  servant, 'the  young  woman  is  certainly 
out  of  her  senses ;  do  pray  take  her  away,  she 
terrifies  me  to  death.* 

*  Oh  God,'  cried  Charlotte,  clasping  her  hands 
in  an  agony,  'this  is  too  much;  what  will  be- 
come of  me  ?  but  I  will  not  leave  you  :  here  on 
my  knees  I  conjure  you  to  save  me  from  perish- 
ing in  the  streets ;  if  you  really  have  forgotten 
me,  oh  for  charity's  sweet  sake,  this  night  let 
me  be  sheltered  from  the  winter's  piercing  cold.' 

The  kneeling  figure  of  Charlotte,  in  her  affect- 
ing situation,  might  have  moved  the  heart  of  a 
stoic  to  compassion  ;  but  Mrs.  CraytOn  remain- 
ed inflexible.  In  vain  did  Charlotte  recount 
the  time  they  had  known  each  other  at  Chiches- 
ter, in  vain  mention  their  being  in  the  same  ship, 
in  vain  were  the  names  of  Montraville  and  Bel- 
cour  mentioned.  Mrs.  Crayton  could  only  say 
she  was  sorry  for  her  imprudence,  but  could  not 

I  think  of  having  her  own  reputation  endangered 
by  encouraging  a  woman  of  that  kind  in  her 
house,  besides  she  did  not  know  what  trouble 
land  expense  she  might  bring  upon  her  husband 
f  by  giving  shelter  to  a  woman  in  her  situation. 

' 1  can  at  least  die  here,'   said  Charlotte,  '  I 
;  feel  I  cannot  long  survive  this  dreadful  conflict. 
Father  of  mercy,    here   let   me  finish  my  exist- 
ence. '     Her  agonizing  sensations  overpowered 
her,  and  she  fell  senseless  on  the  floor. 

'Take   her   away,'  said  Mrs.  Crsyton,  'she 


130 
will  really  frighten  me  into  hysterics ;  take  her* 
away,  I  say,  this  instant.' 

1  And  where  must  I  take  the  poor  creature  I 
said  the  servant,  with  a  voice  and  a  look  of  com- 
passion. 

*  Any  where,'  cried  she  hastily, '  only  don't  let 
me  ever  see  her  again.  I  declare  she  has  flurried 
me  so,  I  shan't  be  myself  again  this  fort-night.' 

John,  assisted  by  his  fellow  servant,  raised 
and  carried  her  down  stairs.  *  Poor  soul,'  said 
he,  '  you  shall  not  lay  in  the  street  this  night. 
I  have  a  bed  and  a  poor  little  hovel,  where  my 
wife  and  her  little  ones  restthem,  but  they  shall 
watch  to-night,  and  you  shall  be  sheltered  from 
danger.'  They  placed  her  in  a  chair ;  and  the 
benevolent  man,  assisted  by  his  comrades,  car- 
ried her  to  the  place  where  his  wife  and  children 
lived.  A  surgeon  was  sent  for ;  he  bled  her, 
she  gave  signs  of  returning  life,  and  before  the 
dawn,  gave  birth  to  a  female  infant.  After  this> 
event  she  lay  some  hours  in  a  kind  of  stupor* 
and  if  at  any  time  she  spoke,  it  was  with  a  quick- 
ness and  incoherence  that  plainly  evinced  ihe> 
total  deprivation  of  her  reason. 


CHAP.  XXXII. 

Reasoiis  why  and  wherefore. 
THE  reader  of  sensibility  may  perhaps  be 
astonished  to  find  Mrs.  Cray  ton  could  so  posi- 
tively deny  any  knowledge  of  Charlotte ;  it  is 
therefore  but  just  that  her  conduct  should  in 
some  measure  be  accounted  for.     She  had  ever 


131 

been  fully  sensible  of  the  superiority  of  Char- 
lotte's sense  and  virtue ;  she  was  conscious  that 
she  had  never  swerved  from  rectitude,  had  it 
not  been  for  her  bad  precepts  and  worse  exam- 
Iple.  These  were  things  as  yet  unknown  to  her 
husband,  and  she  wished  not  to  have  that  part 
4  bf  her  conduct  exposed  to  him,  as  she  had  great 
3  jreason  to  fear  she  had  already  lost  considerable 
]  *art  of  that  power  she  once  maintained  over 
1  jiim.  She  trembled  wnile  Charlotte  was.  in  the 
1  House,  lest  the  Colonel  should  return ;  she  per- 
ifectly  well  remembered  how  much  he  seemed 
j  interested  in  her  favour  whilst  on  their  passage 
i'rom  England,  and  made  no  doubt,  but,  should 
lie  see  her  in  her  present  distress,  he  would  offer 
lker  an  asylum,  and  protect  her  to  the  utmost  of 
1  \\s  power.  In  that  case  she  feared  the  unguard- 
ckl  nature  of  Charlotte  might  discover  to  the 
I  Colonel  the  part  she  had  taken  in  the  unhappy 
jHrl's  elopement,  and  she  well  knew  the  contrast 
Ipetween  her  own  and  Charlotte's  conduct  would 
ijr4ike  the  former  appear  in  no  very  respectable 
lfe;ht.  Had  she  reflected  properly,  she  would 
Jhave  afforded  the  poor  girl  protection;  and  by 
enjoining  her  silence,  ensured  it  by  acts  of  re- 
'jpeated  kindness  ;  but  vice  in  general  blinds  its 
Notaries,  and  they  discover  their  real  characters 
to  the  world  when  they  are  most  studious  to 
5>res^rve  appearances.' 

J  ist  so  it  happened  with  Mrs.  Crayton  :  her 
servants  made  no  scruple  of  mentioning  the  cru- 
el conduct  of  their  lady  to  a  poor  distressed  lu- 
natic who  claimed  her  protection  ;  every  one 
joined  in  reprobating  her  inhumanity  ;  nay,  even 


132 

Corydon  thought  she  might  at  least  have  order- 
ed her  to  be  taken   care  of,  but  he  dared   not 
even  hint  it  to  her,  for  he  lived  in  her  smiles, 
and  drew  from   her  lavish  fondness  large  sums  « 
to  support  an  extravagance  to  which  the  state  : 
of  his  own   finances   was  very  inadequate :    i  it 
cannot    therefore   be  supposed  that  he  wishe  & 
Mrs.  Crayton  to  be  very  liberal  in  her  bount  y 
to  the  afflicted*  suppliant;    yet  vice  had  not  s  © 
entirely  seared  over  his  heart,  but  the  sorrow  rs 
of  Charlotte  could  find  a  vulnerable  part. 

Charlotte  had  been  three  days  with  her  hi  i- 
mane  preservers,  but  she  was  totally  insensib  '.e 
of  every  thing;  she  raved  incessantly  for  Moi  i^ 
traville  and  her  father  ;  she  was  not  conscioi:  s 
of  being  a  mother ;  nor  took  the  least  notice  <  A 
her  child  except  to  ask  whose  it  was,  and  wh  y 
it  was  not  carried  to  its  parents. 

cOh,'  said  she  'one  day,  starting  up,  on  heai  •* 
ing  the  infant  cry,  '  why,  why  will  you  keep  the  it 
child  here  ?     I  am  sure   you  would  not  if  yo*  1 
knew  how  hard  it  was  for  a  mother  to  be  pai    *■  i 
from  her  infant;    it  is  like  tearing  the  cords    *£ 
life  asunder.  Oh,  could  you  see  the  horrid  sigj    \ 
which  I  now  behold — there — there   stands  my  j 
dear  mother,  her  bosom  bleeding  at  every  vein.  1 
her  gentle,   affectionate  heart  torn  into  a  thou- 
sand pieces,  and  all  for  the  loss  of  a  ruined,  un- 
grateful child.  Save  me,  save  me  from  her  frown. 
I  dare  not — indeed  I  dare  not  speak  to  her.' 

Such  were  the  dreadful  images  that  haunted 
her  distracted  mind,  and  nature  was  sinking  fast 
under  the  dreadful  malady  which  medicine  had 
no  power  to  remove.     The  surgeon  who  attend- 


133 
ed  her  was  a  humane  man.}  he  exerted  his  ut- 
most abihties  to  save  her,  but  he  saw  she  was 
in  want  of  many  necessaries  and  comforts,  which 
the  poverty  of  her  hospitable  host  rendered  him 
unable  to  prov.de  ;  he  therefore  determined  to 
make  her  s.tuation  known  to  some  of  the  offi- 

for  her  r'eikf      ^^^  *  make  a  Collection 

resoh!1rionhehreftUrnJd  h°me'  after  maki"S  this 
ch?mJ  \  uT?  a  messaee  from  Mn.  Beau- 
champ,  who  had  just  arrived  from  Rhode-  Is- 

her  cMlf  eSt'nffKhe  W°Uld  Ca"  andtsee  °"«  of 
her  children,  who  was  very  unwel.     <  I  do  not 

know,'  sa.d  he,  as  he  was  hastening  to  obey  "he 

ZuU  ""I  ' l  -dK°  "0t  kn°W  a  ~  to  whom  I 
could  apply  wuh  more  hope  of  success  than  Mrs 
Beauchamp.  I  will  endeavour  to  interest  1^ 
m  this  poor  grl's  behalf ;  she  wants  th sooS 
ing  balm  of  fr,endly  consolation  ;  we  may  per- 
haps  save  her ;  we  will  try  at  least.  7  P 

And  where  is  she,'  cried  Mrs.  Beaurham,, 
v.  -en  he  had  prescribed  somethLg  for  the  ^Z' 
a.d  told  h,s  little  pathetic  tale,  <  where  is  she 
Z  .  ;v?  •*  S°  to  her  immediately      Haven 
forbid  that  I  should  be  deaf  to  the  calls  of  hu 

«~  the  doctor's  arm,  they  sought  the  habi. 
tatton  that  contained  the  dying  CharloUe, 


M 


134, 

CHAP.  XXXIII.    . 

Which  people  void  of  feeling  need  not  read* 

WHEN  Mrs.  Beauchamp  entered  the 
apartment  of  the  poor  sufferer,  she  started  back 
with  horror.  On  a  wretched  bed,  without  hang- 
ings, and  but  poorly  supplied  with  covering,  lay 
the  emaciated  figure  of  what  still  retained  the 
semblance  of  a  lovely  woman,  though  sickness 
had  so  altered  her  features  that  Mrs.  Beau- 
champ  had  not  the  least  recollection  of  her  per- 
son. In  one  corner  of  the  room  stood  a  woman 
washing,  and,  shivering  over  a  small  fire,  two 
healthy  but  half  naked  children ;  the  infant  was 
asleep  beside  its  mother,  and  on  a  chair  by  the 
bed  side  stood  a  porringer  and  wooden  spoon, 
containing  a  little  gruel,  and  a  teacup  with  about 
two  spoonfuls  of  wine  in  it.  Mrs.  Beauchamp 
had  never  before  beheld  such  a  scene  of  pover- 
ty ;  she  shuddered  involuntarily,  and  exclaim- 
ing—1 heaven  preserve  us  !'  leaned  on  the  back 
of  a  chair  ready  to  sink  to  the  earth.  The  doc- 
tor repented  having  so  precipitately  brought  her 
into  this  affecting  scene ;  but  there  was  no  time 
for  apologies ;  Charlotte  caught  the  sound  of 
her  voice,  and  starting  almost  out  of  bed,  ex- 
claimed— c  Angel  of  peace  and  mercy,  art  thou 
come  to  deliver  me?  Oh,  I  know  you  are,  for 
whenever  you  was  near  me  I  felt  eased  of  half 
my  sorrows;  but  you  do  not  know  me,  nor  can 
I,  with  all  the  recollection  I  am  mistress  of,  re- 
member your  name  just  now,  but  I  know  that 


135 

benevolent  countenance,  and  the  softness  of  that 
voice  which  has  so  often  comforted  the  wretch- 
ed Charlotte. ' 

Mrs.  Beauchamp  had,  during  the  time  Char- 
lotte was  speaking,  seated  herself  on  the  bed  and 
taken  one  of  her  hands ;.  she  looked  at  her  at- 
tentively, and  at  the  name  or  Charlotte  she  per- 
fectly conceived  the  whole  shocking  affair.  A 
faint  sickness  came  over  her.  k  Gracious  hea- 
ven,' said  she,  *  is  this  possible  V  and  bursting 
into  tears,  she  reclined  the  burning  head  of 
Charlotte  on  her  own  bosom  ;  and  folding  her 
arms  about  her,  wept  over  her  in  silence.  '  Oh,* 
said  Charlotte,  *  you  are  very  good  to  weep 
thus  for  me ;  it  is  a  long  time  since  I  shed  a 
tear  for  myself;  my  head  and  heart  are  both  on 
lire,  but  these  tears  of  yours  seem  to  cool  and 
refresh  them.  Oh  now  I  remember  you  said 
you  would  send  a  letter  to  my  poor  father ;  do 
you  think  he  ever  received  it?  or  perhaps  you 
have  brought  me  an  answer.  Why  do  not  you 
speak,  Madam  ?  Does  he  say  I  may  go  home? 
Well  he  is  very  good  ;   I  shall  soon  be  ready.' 

She  then  made  an  ttTort  to  get  out  of  bed; 
but  being  prevented,  her  frenzy  again  returned, 
and  she  raved  with  the  greatest  wildness  and  in- 
coherence. Mrs.  Beauchamp  finding  it  was 
impossible  for  her  to  be  removed,  contented 
herself  with  ordering  the  apartment  to  be  made 
comfortable,  and  procuring  a  proper  nurse  for 
both  mother  and  child  ;  and  having  learnt  the 
particulars  of  Charlotte's  fruitless  application  to 
Mrs.  Cray  ton,  from  honest  John,  she  amply  re- 
warded him  for  his  benevolence,  and  returned 


136 

home  with  a  heart  oppressed  with  many  painful 
sensations,  but  yet  rendered  easy  by  the  reflec- 
tion that  she  had  performed  her  duty  towards  a 
distressed  fellow  creature. 

Early  the  next  morning  she  again  visited 
Charlotte,  and  found  her  tolerably  composed. 
She  called  her  by  name,  thanked  her  ior  her 
goodness,  and  when  her  child  was  brought  to 
her,  pressed  it  in  her  arms,  wept  over  it,  and 
called  it  the  offspring  of  disobedience.  Mrs, 
Beauchamp  was  delighted  to  find  her  so  much 
amended,  and  began  to  hope  s&e  might  recover, 
and,  spite  of  her  former  errors,  become  a  useful 
and  respectable  member  of  society  ;*but  the  ar- 
rival of  the  doctor  put  an  end  to  these  delusive 
hopes;  he  said  nature  was  making  her  last  ef- 
fort, and  a  few  hours  would  most  probably  con- 
sign the  unhappy  girl  to  her  kindred  dust. 

Being  asked  how  she  found  herself,  she  re- 
plied— wWhy  better,  much  better,  doctor.  I 
hope  now  I  have  but  little  more  to  suffer.  I  had 
last  night  a  few  hours  sleep,  and  when  I  awoke 
recovered  the  full  power  of  recollection.  1  am 
quite  sensible  of  my  weakness ;  I  leel  I  have 
but  little  longer  to  combat  with  the  shafts  of  af- 
fliction. 1  have  a  humble  confidence  in  the 
mercy  of  him  who  died  to  save  the  world,  and 
trust  that  my  sufferings  in  this  state  of  mortali- 
ty, joined  to  my  unfeigned  repentance,  through 
his  mercy,  have  blotted  my  offences  from  the 
sight  of  my  offended  maker.  1  have  but  one 
care — my  poor  infant!  Father  of  mercies,'  con- 
tinued she,  raising  her  eyes,  fcof  thy  infinite 
goodness,  grant  that  the  sins  of  the  parent  be 


137 

not  visited  on  the  unoffending  child.  May  those 
who  taught  mc  to  despise  thy  laws  be  forgiven  ; 
lay  not  my  offences  to  their  charge,  I  beseech 
thee  ;  and  oh  !  shower  the  choicest  of  thy  bless- 
ings on  those  whose  pity  has  soothed  the  afflict- 
ed heart,  and  made  easy  even  the  bed  .of  pain 
and  sickness.' 

She  was  exhausted  by  this  fervent  address  to 
the  throne  of  mercy,  and  though  her  lips  still 
moved  her  voice  became  inarticulate ;  she  lay 
for  some  time  as  it  were  in  a  doze,  and  then 
recovering,  faintly  pressed  Mrs.  Beauchamp's 
hand,  and  requested  a  clergyman  might  be  sent 
for. 

On  his  arrival,  she  joined  fervently  in  the  pi- 
ous office,  frequently  mentioning  her  ingratitude 
to  her  parents  as  what  lay  most  heavy  at  her 
heart.  When  she  had  performed  the  last  solemn 
duty,  and  was  preparing  to  lie  down,  a  little 
bustle  at  the  outside  door  occasioned  Mrs. 
Beauchamp  to  open  it,  and  inquire  the  cause. 
A  man,  in  appearance  about  forty,  presented 
himself,  and  asked  for  Mrs   Beauchamp. 

4  That  is  my  name,  Sir,'  said  she. 

4  Oh  then,  my  dear  Madam,'  cried  he,  *  tell 
me  where  I  may  find  my  poor,  ruined,  but  re- 
pentant child.' 

Mrs.  Beauchamp  was  surprised  and  affected; 

e  knew  not  what  to  say  ;  she  foresaw  the  ago- 
ny this  interview  would  occasion  Mr.  Temple, 
who  had  just  arrived  in  search  of  his  Charlotte, 
and  yet  was  sensible  that  the  pardon  and  bless- 
ing of  her  father  would  soften  even  the  agonies 
of  death  to  the  daughter. 
M2 


138 

She  hesitated.  '  Tell  me,  Madam,'  cried  he 
wildly,  *  tell  me,  I  beseech  thee,  does  she  live? 
shall  I  see  my  darling  once  again  ?  Perhaps  she 
is  in  this  house.  Lead,  lead  me  to  her,  that  I 
may  bless  her,  and  tben  lie  down  and  die.' 

The  ardent  manner  in  which  h#*S&tered  these 
words  occasioned  him  to  raise  his  voice.  It 
caught  the  ear  of  Charlotte  ;  she  kmrw  the  be- 
loved sound  ;  and  uttering  a  loud  shriek,  she 
sprang  forward  as  Mr.  Temple  entered  the 
room.  'My  adored  father.'  'My  long  lost 
child.'  Nature  could  support  no  more,  and 
they  both  sunk  lifeless  into  the  arms  of  the  at- 
tendants. 

Charlotte  was  again  put  into  bed,  and  a  few 
moments  restored  Mr.  Temple  ;  but  to  describe 
the  agony  of  his  sufferings  is  past  the  power  of 
any  one,  who,  though  they  may  readily  conceive, 
cannot  delineate  the  dreadful  scene.  Every  eye 
gave  testimony  of  what  each  heart  felt — but  all 
were  silent. 

When  Charlotte  recovered,  she  found  herself 
supported  in  her  father's  arms.  She  cast  on  him 
a  most  expressive  look,  but  was  unable  to  speak. 
A  reviving  cordial  was  administered.  She  then 
asked,  in  a  low  voice,  for  her  child ;  it  was 
brought  to  her ;  she  put  it  in  her  father's  arms. 
4  Protect  her,'  said  she, '  and  bless  your  dying — ' 

Unable  to  finish  the  sentence,  she  sunk  b;  *k 
on  her  pillow  ;  her  countenance  was  serenely 
composed  ;  she  regarded  her  father  as  he  press- 
ed the  infant  to  his  breast  with  a  steadfast  look ; 
a  sudden  beam  of  joy  passed  across  her  languid 
features,  she  raised  her  eyes  to  heaven — and 
then  closed  them  forever. 


139 

CHAP.  XXXIV. 

Retribution. 

IN  the  meantime  Montraville,  having  re- 
ceived orders  to  return  to  New-York,  arrived, 
and  having  still  some  remains  of  compassionate 
tenderness  for. the  woman  whom  he  regarded  as 
brought  to  shame  by  himself,  he  went  out  ia 
search  of  Belcour,  to  inquire  whether  she  was 
safe,  and  whether  the  child  lived.  He  found 
him  immersed  in  dissipation,  and  could  gain  no 
other -intelligence  than  that  Charlotte  had  left 
him,  and  that  he  knew  not  what  was  become  of 
her. 

8 1  cannot  believe  it  possible,  that  a  mind  once 
so  pure  as  Charlotte  Temple's,  should  so  sud- 
denly become  the  mansion  of  vice.  Beware, 
Belcour,' continued  he,  'beware,  if  you  have 
dared  to  behave  either  unjust  or  dishonourably 
to  that  poor  girl,  your  life  shall  pay  the  forfeit ; 
I  will  revenge  her  cause.' 

He  immediately  went  into  the  country,  to  the 
house  where  he  had  left  Charlotte  :  it  was  de- 
solate. After  much  inquiry,  he  at  length  found 
the  servant  girl  who  had  lived  with  her.  From 
her  he  learnt  the  misery  Charlotte  had  endured 
from  the  complicated  evils  of  illness,  poverty  and 
a  broken  heart,  and  that  she  had  set  out  on  foot 
for  New-York,  on  a  cold  winter's  evening;  but 
she  could  inform  him  no  further. 

Tortured  almost  to  madness  by  this  shocking 
account,  he  returned  to  the  city?  but  before  he 


140 

reached  it,  the  evening  was  drawing  to  a  close. 
In  entering  the  town  he  was  obliged  to  pass  se* 
veral  little  huts,  the  residence  of  poor  women, 
who  supported  themselves  by  washing  the 
clothes  of  the  officers  and  soldiers.  It  was  nearly 
dark  ;  he  heard  from  a  neighbouring  steeple  a 
solemn  toll  that  seemed  to  say  some  poor  mortal 
was  going  to  their  last  mansion ;  the  sound 
struck  on  the  heart  of  Montraville,  and  he  in- 
voluntarily stopped,  when,  from  one  of  the 
houses,  he  saw  the  appearance  of  a  funeral.  Al- 
most unknowing  what  he  did,  he  followed  at  a 
small  distance  ;  and  as  they  let  the  coffin  into 
the  grave,  he  inquired  of  a  soldier  who  stood  by, 
and  had  just  brushed  off  a  tear  that  did  honour 
to  his  heart,  who  it  was   that  was  just  buried. 

*  An*  please  your  honour,'  said  the  man,  4  'tis  a 
poor  girl  that  was  brought  from  her  friends  by 
a  cruel  man,  who  left  her  when  she  was  big  with 
child,  and  married  another.' — Montraville  stood 
motionless,  and  the  man  proceeded — '  I  met  her 
myself  not  a  fortnight  since,  one  night,  all  wet 
and  cold,  in  the  street ;  she  went  to  Madam 
Crayton's — she  would  not  take  her  in,  and  so 
the  poor  thing  went  raving  mad.' — Montraville 
could  bear  no  more  :  he  struck  his  hands  against 
his  forehead  with  violence  ;    and  exclaiming — 

*  poor  murdered  Charlotte  !'  ran  with  precipita- 
tion towards  the  place  where  they  were  heaping 
the  earth  on  her  remains.  '  Hold,  hold  one  mo- 
ment,' said  he, '  loose  not  the  grave  of  the  injur- 
ed Charlotte  Temple  till  I  have  taken  vengeance 
on  her  murderer.' 


141 

*Hash  young  man,'  said  Mr.  Temple,  *who 
art  thou  that  thus  disturbest  the  last  mourn tul 
rites  of  the  dead,  and  rudely  kf takest  in  upon 
the  grief  of  an  afflicted  father?'  * 

*  If  thou  art  the  father  of  Charlotte  Temple,* 
said  he,  gazing  at  him  with  mingled  horror  and 

amazement — '  if  thou  art  her  lather 1  am 

Montraville.'  Then  falling  on  his  knees  he  con- 
tinued— 4  Here  is  my  bosom.  I  bare  it  to  re- 
ceive the  stroke  I  merit.  Strike — strike  now, 
and  save  me  from  the  misery  of  reflection.' 

*  Alas!'  said  Mr.  Temple,  *  if  them  wert  the 
seducer  of  my  child,  thy  own  reflections  be  thy 
punishment.  I  wrest  not  the  power  from  the 
hand  of  omnipotence.  Look  on  that  little  heap 
of  earth ;  there  hast  thou  buried  the  only  joy 
of  a  fond  father.  Look  atitoitenj  and  may 
thy  heart  feel  such  true  sorrow  as  may  merit 
the  mercy  of  heaven.'  He  turned  from  him ; 
and  Montraville  starting  up  from  the  ground, 
where  he  had  thrown  himself,  and  at  that  in- 
stant remembering  the  perfidy  of  Belcour,  flew 
like  lightning  to  his  lodgings.  Belcour  was  in- 
toxicated ;  Montraville  impetuous  ;  they  fought, 
and  the  sword  of  the  latter  entered  the  heart  of 
his  adversary.  He  fell  and  expired  almost  in- 
stantly. Montraville  had  received  a  slight 
wound ;  and  overcome  with  the  agitation  of  his 
mind  and  loss  of  blood,  was  carried  in  a  state 
of  insensibility  to  his  distracted  wife.  A  dan- 
gerous illness  and  obstinate  delirium  ensued, 
during  which  he  raved  incessantly  for  Charlotte  ; 
but  a  strong  constitution,  and  the  tender  assidu- 
ities of  Julia,  in  time  overcame  the  disorder* 


142 

He  recovered,  but  to  the  end  of  his  life  was  sub- 
ject to  severe  fits  of  melancholy,  and,  while  he 
remained  at  New-York,  frequently  retired  to 
the  church  yard,  where  he  would  weep  over  the 
grave,  and  regret  the  untimely  fate  of  the  love- 
ly Charlotte  Temple. 


CHAP.  XXXV. 

Conclusion, 

SHORTLY  after  the  interment  of  his 
daughter,  Mr.  Temple,  with  his  dear  little 
charge,  and  her  nurse,  set  forward  for  England. 
It  would  be  impossible  to  do  justice  to  the  meet- 
ing scene  between  him,  his  Lucy,  and  her  aged 
father.  Every  heart  of  sensibility  can  easily 
conceive  their  feelings.  After  the  first  tumult 
of  grief  was  subsided,  Mrs  Temple  gave  up 
the  chief  of  her  time  to  her  grand-child,  and  as 
she  grew  up  and  improved,  began  to  almost 
fancy  she  again  possessed  her  Charlotte. 

It  was  about  ten  years  after  these  painful 
events,  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Temple,  having  bu- 
ried their  father,  were  obliged  to  come  to  Lon- 
don on  particular  business,  and  brought  the  lit- 
tle Lucy  with  them.  They  had  been  walking 
one  evening,  when  on  their  return  they  found  a 
poor  wretch  sitting  on  the  steps  at  the  door. 
She  attempted  to  rise  as  they  approached,  but 
from  extreme  weakness  was  unable,  and  after 
several  fruitless  efforts  fell  back  in  a  fit.     Mr. 


143 

TemrJe  was  not  one  of  those  men  who  stand  to 
consider  whether  by  assisting  an  object  in  dis- 
tress they  shall  not  inconvenience  themselves 
but  instigated  by  the  impulse  of  a  noble  feeling 
heart,  immediately  ordered  her  to  be  carried  in- 
to  the  house,  and  a  proper  restorative  applied. 

She  soon  recovered,  and  fixing  her  eyes  on, 
Mrs.  Temple,  cried— .*  You  know  not,  Madam, 
what  you  do ;  you  know  not  whom  you  are  re- 
lieving,  or  you  would  curse  me  in  the  bitterness 
of  your  heart.  Come  not  near  me,  Madam,  I 
shall  contaminate  you.  I  am  the  viper  that 
stung  your  peace.  I  am  she  who  turned  poor 
Charlotte  out  to  perish  in  the  street.  Heaven, 
have  mercy!  I  see  her  now,'  continued  she, 
looking  at  Lucy :  '  such,  such  was  the  fair  bud 
of  innocence  that  my  vile  arts  blasted  ere  it  was 
halt  blown.'  \ 

It  was  in  vain  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Temple  en- 
treated her  to  be  composed,  and  to  take  some 
refreshment.  She  only  drank  half  a  glass  of 
Wine,  and  then  told  them  that  she  had  been  se- 
parated from  her  husband  seven  years,  the  chief 
ot  which  she  had  passed  in  riot,  dissipation  and 
vice  till,  overtaken  by  poverty  and  sickness,  she 
had  been  reduced  to  part  with  every  valuable, 
and  thought  only  of  ending  her  life  in  a  prison  ; 
when  a  benevolent  friend  paid  her  debts  and  re- 
leased  her;  but  that  her  illness  increasing,  she 
had  no  possible  means  of  supporting  herself, 
and  her  friends  were  weary  of  relieving  her! 
I  have  fasted,'  said  she,  'two  days,  and  last 
night   lay   my   aching  head  on  the  cold  pave- 


144 

ment;  indeed  it  was  but  just  that  I  shoijd  ex» 
perience  those  miseries  myself  which  I  had  un- 
feelingly inflicted  on  others.' 

Greatly  as  Mr.  Temple  had  reason  to  detest 
Mrs.  Crayton,  he  could  not  behold  her  in  this 
distress  without  some  emotions  of  pity.  He 
gave  her  shelter  that  night  beneath  his  hospita- 
ble roof,  and  the  next  day  got  her  admission  in- 
to a  hospital ;  where,  haying  lingered  a  few 
weeks,  she  died,  a  striking  example  that  vice, 
however  prosperous  in  the  beginning,  in  th«  end 
leads  only  to  misery  and  shame.   " 


I 


*!** 


